Eden Sank To Grief
by Shutterbug12
Summary: A series of twelve episodes set during House and Stacy's relationship.
1. January 1996

Nature's first green is gold  
Her hardest hue to hold.  
Her early leaf's a flower;  
But only so an hour.  
Then leaf subsides to leaf.  
So Eden sank to grief,  
So dawn goes down to day.  
Nothing gold can stay.

"Nothing Gold Can Stay"  
Robert Frost

**January 1996 **

"How did you beat me home?" Stacy brushed fat snowflakes from her shoulders and stepped from the foyer, eyes wide with surprise. Greg lounged in one corner of the couch, a blanket drawn across his lap and a mug of steaming coffee balanced on his thigh. "You hadn't signed out of the Clinic when I left."

"I passed you about four miles up the road. Surprised you didn't hear the beep."

She shrugged out of her coat and draped it across the back of a chair. "I was concentrating on the road."

"I was already home for a half-hour before I saw your car crawling through the intersection." He offered her the mug, a smirk tugging at his lips. "You _do_ remember where the gas pedal is, don't you?"

She hitched up one leg to sit on the arm of the couch and reached for the mug, curving both hands around it to warm her fingers. "I was nervous."

"Afraid your dragster speeds would make you fishtail out of control?"

The taunt would have roused a reaction if it hadn't been overshadowed by the wispy threads of steam rising from her mug. The vapor, laced with aromas of a dark French roast, curled around her face, warmth spreading across her skin.

When she lowered her hand to stroke the back of his head, he seemed disappointed with the unreturned volley. His eyebrows drew together. "What, did a few flurries take all the fight out of you?" he asked, sitting up to reach for the mug.

Grinning, she swatted his hand away and scooted behind the couch toward the bookshelf. His loud huff failed to draw her attention, and she lazily traced the book spines with her finger as she sipped her coffee.

When she had moved in, Greg had cleared a few shelves for her, stacking old chemistry textbooks and outdated medical journals in boxes. She had filled the space with souvenirs of her undergraduate years—novels and anthologies that bore dog-ear creases and her handwritten notes. Occasionally, she plucked a volume from the shelf and perused the tiny scribbles in the margin, careful not to smudge the traces of her effort and interest, before replacing it with its fellows between a pair of heavy bookends.

She tucked a thin paperback under her arm and carried it to the window. Propping the book on the windowsill, she watched the snow fall. Shimmering silver snowflakes streamed through the beams of streetlamps. On the sidewalk, yellow-orange light spilled from neighboring living rooms, casting fuzzy pools of color onto a fresh layer of downy snow. It left her with an empty sense of nostalgia for experiences that years in the South had denied her.

A cold draft seeped through the window's seal, and she shivered. Her breath left a patch of fog on the glass.

"There's room over here." Greg patted the couch cushion. "Blankets, body heat, all the cozy warmth you need."

She glanced over her shoulder, but didn't move from the window. A short sigh escaped her. "I never saw snow until I was twenty-one. Real snow, like this."

Greg stayed silent, but his brows furrowed.

"But I never had time to enjoy it." She paused to sip her coffee. "Full time student, full time lawyer."

Stacy stared into her coffee. She knew that such a somber admission was an invitation for a teasing remark, a light joke to crack the tension. But after a still, quiet moment, she heard a rustle—the blanket, she assumed—and the quiet slip-shuffle of Greg's socks against the floor. Turning slowly from the window, she watched him disappear into the hallway and reappear several minutes later, his arms balancing a mountain of winter attire—a couple of hooded parkas, knitted hats, an assortment of mittens and gloves, two colorful scarves, and a matching set of boots.

He dropped the bundle at her feet. "The boots won't fit you," he said, bending to retrieve a pair. "They're an older pair of mine. But they're better than your sneakers."

She set her mug on the windowsill, a grin on her lips, and dressed herself with the clothes that Greg tossed at her. As she laced the boots, she wiggled her toes. The tips of the boots stretched several inches past her toes, and she sighed as she stood.

"Nice clown feet." He snickered, zipping his own parka.

"At least _one_ of us can brag about the length of their feet." She lifted a foot and waved it.

He smirked, took hold of her hand, and dragged her out the door.

Their cheeks were pink when they reached the park near the end of the street. She followed him to a bench at the top of a hill, stomp-walking through the snow, and dusted snow from the seat. Greg gathered her against his side, and she let her head fall to his shoulder, covering her ear with her hat as the flakes settled on their bodies.

The silence lasted for less than a minute before Greg pointed, his arm crossing her body and guiding her attention to a drift near a tree. "See that?"

Stacy squinted. A piece of blue plastic lay half-buried in the drift. "It's a piece of garbage, Greg."

He huffed, a flash of disbelief crossing his face, and hauled her off the bench. "That's not garbage."

Within minutes, Greg was displaying his find, dramatically gesturing to the large disc like Vanna White.

Stacy cocked her head. "What is it?"

"It's a sled." He sat and pushed himself over the snow to illustrate. "Hop on."

Eyeing him with suspicion, she sat in the circle of his folded legs. She felt his arm wrap around her—a wordless offer of security—before the sled moved forward and teetered on the crest of a hill. Snow crunched beneath them, and her heart sped up in her chest.

"Greg," she whispered. Her hands gripped his forearm as if it were a safety harness. "I'm not sure this is a good—"

Her words remained at the top of the hill, left behind as the sled lurched forward with a wobbly push.

The instant rush drew a shriek from her throat—a girlish shriek that made her recall a time when she wore denim overalls instead of pleated power suits, when she pedaled down the hill on her white banana-seat bike in her backyard, training wheels defiantly abandoned in the grass.

Her hair had danced around her face, caught in a happy vortex of wind as she'd glanced over her shoulder. She'd heard her own laugh whipping past her ears, imagining it vanishing between the tear-blurred masses of tree trunks, until—

The sled slid from under them. She toppled into a mound of powdery snow, and, in lieu of the aluminum frame of her Huffy, Greg tumbled on top of her, coming to rest with a grunt near her ear.

"Well," she said, "I suppose I shouldn't expect to see your Olympic debut in Nagano. You'll need more than two years to rectify that apparent inability to turn."

Braced on his elbows, he lowered his head until the chilled tips of their noses met. His breath warmed the skin of her face when he spoke. "The rider in the front seat usually steers the sled, so don't blame this crash on me. I'm only responsible for the brake."

"Oh, well, in that case, you're _clear_ly blameless." Her tongue snuck between her lips to ease her dry, wind-burned skin. The tip of her tongue inadvertently grazed his bottom lip, forcing a quiet hitch in his breathing.

"Fine," he whispered with a low tone. "Next time I'll abandon ship, let you wrap yourself around a tree."

"You wouldn't." She supplemented her verbal challenge with another, purposeful swipe of her tongue across his lip.

Stacy smirked with smug satisfaction as his eyelids fluttered closed. Occasionally, Greg's inclination to argue succumbed to his libido. Sarcastic retorts or playfully obnoxious remarks would yield to fast, heavy breaths or resonating moans, and sometimes she preferred him that way—lost to his baser drives, overcome with fervid passion, temporarily robbed of his rationality.

"No," he mumbled, sliding his open mouth against hers. "I wouldn't."

The warmth of his mouth contrasted the cold, and she welcomed the hot, slip-push of his tongue. Her hips rolled upward, away from the cool, melting crystals beneath her, and met with Greg's burgeoning erection, warm through the denim of his jeans. She felt the rumble of his groan inside her mouth. Hot, wet warmth pooled between her thighs, displacing the discomfort of the cool dampness on the seat of her pants.

Her hands curled under his arms to rest on the small of his back, driven by an insatiable desire to touch him. The material of her mittens was worn, thinned at the edges, and afforded little protection, but she was grateful for it. Warmth radiated from under his coat, and she tugged up the hem to press her hands to his skin.

Stacy's eyes opened wide in surprise when Greg's body tensed, and he pulled away from her, hissing through clenched teeth. She watched as a short exhale left him—a visible plume of fog rising from his mouth.

"Damn, stop it," he said shortly. "That's _cold_."

"What, the Northern boy can't take it?" A playful grin pulled at the corner of her mouth as she shoved a handful of snow under his clothes, pressing it into his back before he gasped and wiggled away from her.

She stood, watching him shake the snow from his coat, and caught the scowl on his face. She hadn't considered his attempts at retribution, and the thought made her squirm. She stepped close to him and stretched out her hand. "Truce?" she asked, perhaps a little too hopefully.

He eyed her, head tilted and eyes narrowed, scrutinizing her in an attempt to read past her outstretched hand. Over the last few months, she had become familiar with that stare—acutely observant and unwavering in its focus and intensity. It was paralyzing, made her breath catch in her throat almost painfully. She loved it.

His eyes never left her as he straightened his hat and scarf. She felt the impulse to lower her hand, to stuff it deep into her pocket and force him to tail after her to their townhouse, but she squared her shoulders, raised her chin, and waited. When he extended his hand and grasped hers, she slumped her shoulders and closed her eyes.

He pulled her against his body and lowered his mouth to her ear. His hissed whisper made her eyes fly open and her arm jerk—a reflexive attempt to flee.

"Never."

He wedged his fist beneath her clothes, dropped a handful of dusty snow down her front, and released her to dash toward the park's entrance.

She chased him, tracking him by his loud battle cry—"The North will prevail!"—and the pattern of his footprints.


	2. September 1996

**September 1996**

Car horns had no business masquerading as alarm clocks, Stacy decided as she rolled onto her side, her legs tangling in the bed sheets.

She groped blindly for the alarm clock and brought it to her face—10:08. She sighed into the pillow, then reached across the bed, frowning when her fingers touched the cool fabric of Greg's pillowcase. For a moment, she imagined—hoped—that Greg lay just out of reach, his head resting on the corner of the mattress, his arm dangling over the edge of the bed.

But, as she squinted against the sunlight, she found Greg's half of the bed occupied only by a baseball cap, a yellow Post-It stuck to the bill. Propping herself on her elbow, she peeled the note from the bill. The message was a jumble of messy scribbles, probably written in the dark: _Got called in. Back around 10. Be ready to go. Wear this with something casual._

Her fingers traced the threads of the raised logo—an orange interlocking NY. Outside, the car horn trumpeted a Morse code of impatient beeps. Stacy felt the tug of an affectionate smile as she hurried out of bed and began rifling through the closet.

By the time she climbed into the passenger seat of Greg's car, the incessant beeps had replaced her smile with a tight-lipped scowl. She stared at him from beneath the bill of her cap. "Were you trying to wake up the whole neighborhood?"

He adjusted his own cap—a ragged version of hers, faded and bearing white sweat stains near the edges. "Just you," he said. "It obviously worked." He smirked, pleased with himself.

"There's a boy a few doors down learning the trombone. I bet he'd be thrilled to make a few bucks next Saturday morning. Play a personal concert. 9 a.m. is good for you, right?"

Greg rolled his eyes as he steered the car away from the curb. "You should be glad I woke you up." He fished inside the pocket of his jacket. "Check it out," he said, a tinge of excitement in his voice as he extended a pair of tickets under her nose. "Mets at Philadelphia. I scored them from Lenny—or Larry. The short guy in Radiology, the one with the mustache."

She eyed him skeptically, never glancing at the tickets, and watched as his eyes flickered from the road to her face. His Adam's apple bobbed with a forced swallow. "You're lying," she challenged.

He shoved the tickets back into his pocket. "Am not."

"So I wouldn't find those tickets on your credit card statement?"

"No."

"Or on Wilson's statement?"

Greg worked his jaw, but didn't reply.

She celebrated a tiny, internal triumph and wagged her finger at him. "You're trying to change my opinion. Last week, I told you that I thought baseball was boring, and you rushed to defend it." She lowered her voice in an attempt to imitate him. "But it's better in person. TV doesn't capture the atmosphere of the game."

"That sounds nothing like me."

She ignored his comment and poked his shoulder with her finger. "This is your last-ditch effort to change my mind."

"No," he said, having the audacity to look hurt. "I just want to spend time with you."

She raised her eyebrows, not buying his words for a moment.

"And it _is_ better in person," he mumbled, refusing to meet her eyes as he drove.

"You know," Stacy said, kicking a plastic souvenir cup away from her foot, "TV really _doesn't_ capture the atmosphere of the game." She narrowed her eyes at the man sitting to her left. He had been guzzling Budweiser for the last three innings, littering the ground around his seat with trash. If the man understood the concept of personal space, he failed to respect it and had commandeered her armrest with a nudge of his sweaty forearm. Stacy had recoiled in disgust. City of Brotherly Love, she thought. Right.

Beside her, Greg mumbled an incoherent response, oblivious to her sarcasm as he threw his head back to toss a peanut into his mouth. A modest pile of shells grew between his feet. She leaned toward him, about to drop the litterbug a loud hint and commend Greg for his neatness, but a wooden crack from the field drew her attention. Her eyes followed the path of the ball into the right fielder's glove.

She nodded toward the fielder. "That's where I played when I was little. I hated it."

Greg slowly faced her. His eyes lit up with the pleasure of a sudden epiphany, and he released an airy snort. "So, the truth comes out. You think baseball is boring because you got stuck in the reject position."

"It's not a reject position."

"Not for older players. But young kids naturally try to pull the ball, and since most of them are right-handed batters, the left fielder usually gets most of the action. So coaches put their worst player in right field."

"Hey, I was pretty good. The game just wasn't exciting, so I—" She cut herself off, dangerously close to divulging her childhood interest in dandelion chains. "—never paid much attention."

"The hallmark of a future all-star." He popped another peanut into his mouth.

"I could throw just as well as any of the boys in my neighborhood."

"I'm guessing you can't even hit the mascot over there." He laid a peanut in his palm and offered it to her.

The mascot, covered in vibrant green fur, resembled an overstuffed toy animal and reminded Stacy of a bizarre breed of Muppet. It stood several feet away, attempting to recruit fans for an impromptu performance of the YMCA. Stacy blinked. "That's their mascot?" she asked. "What's it supposed to be, an alien?"

He shrugged, a grin playing at the corner of his mouth, and rolled the peanut in his palm.

A moment passed before she mirrored the challenging squint of Greg's eyes, plucked the peanut from his hand, took aim, and fired.

Stacy held her breath. As the peanut sailed over the rows in front of them, the mascot merrily shimmied into the aisle and revealed an unobstructed path to the back of a security guard's head. She clasped one hand over her mouth as the peanut struck the guard, who spun to face the crowd with clenched fists. Beside her, Greg dropped his bag of peanuts to the floor and pushed all of the inculpating evidence under the seat in front of him. Stacy sunk low in her seat and peeked from beneath the bill of her cap.

The guard started to climb the steps, his eyes scanning the seats and periodically pausing on potential suspects. Stacy heard her blood thundering in her ears. Her fingers slid along Greg's arm, feeling his body shake with bottled laughter, and gripped his hand in a plea for silence. She could visualize his face—his eyes squeezed shut, mouth tightly sealed, but looking as though he were about to burst with unrestrained glee. She tightened her hold and dug her nails into his palm, hoping to kill his spontaneous bout of laughter before it passed his lips.

Near the end of their row, the guard paused, and she fought against the urge to lower the bill of her cap and cover the guilt stamped all over her face. Instead, she hazarded a glance at Greg. He was staring straight ahead, his lips pressed together, his face red with the effort of holding his breath. Never before had she wished to deny him oxygen, but she knew that, if he drew one breath, laughter would explode from him like steam from a pressure cooker and incriminate both of them.

As the color of Greg's face changed to an alarming shade of cranberry-red, the guard huffed and continued his march up the aisle. Her grip on his hand loosened, and Greg immediately erupted with laughter. Fighting giggles herself, she peered over her shoulder to watch the guard disappear into the alcove. But the press of Greg's hand on her jaw urged her to turn, and she let him guide her into a short, playful kiss. He snickered into her mouth before pulling back, smiling and breathless.

"Screw the game," he said. "Let's get another bag of peanuts. We'll go to the upper deck and pick targets."

Stacy swatted his shoulder and cast a glance at the floor, spying several stray peanut shells. "Great idea," she drawled. "I didn't meet my quota for public embarrassment today."

"Oh, come on. That wasn't embarrassing. That was—"

"Say 'entertaining' and I'll throw _you_ off the upper deck." She fought against a smile. "Shut up and watch the game."

When he lobbed an empty peanut shell at her forehead and flashed a grin, revealing a pair of boyish dimples, she stopped fighting and let her smile spread across her face.


	3. December 1996

**December 1996**

"Clear!"

The volume of Greg's voice carried over the flat, screeching tone of the monitor and into the corridor where Stacy stood, peering through the open blinds.

She had been walking to Greg's office when she'd heard the code, hoping to deliver a goodnight kiss before she left the hospital. The alert came as no surprise; Greg's patient had already crashed once, earlier in the evening. He had called her office, vexed and apologetic, to explain his patient's condition and to cancel their dinner plans. He'd assured her that he would have a diagnosis before midnight.

By two a.m., he had diagnosed and treated his patient twice. Each time, he had been wrong.

"Clear!"

Sweat lined Greg's hairline, shining under the fluorescent light. Stacy could see the strain in his arms, in his hands, muscles corded and knuckles bleached as he gripped the paddles.

She had seen him at work in the past--performing exams, submitting or collecting patient prescriptions, reviewing test results. Routine, clinical work. Greg would have undoubtedly added 'boring' and 'uninteresting' to the list of descriptors, and, as she watched the frenzy of activity behind the glass, she understood why. She felt as though she had walked onto the set of a television drama.

"House!" The shout came from Dr. Fischer, the head of Greg's department. He stood near the foot of the patient's bed.

"One more minute," Greg said, repositioning the paddles on the man's chest.

Fischer lunged and wrenched the paddles from his hands. "The man's had multiple system failures. He's already coded once—"

"So you're just hanging around to call time of death? Productive."

"There's nothing left to _do_."

"I haven't diagnosed him."

"Death," he spat. "_That_'s your diagnosis." Fischer tossed the paddles onto the equipment cart, turned sharply, and shut off the monitor.

As silence fell over the room, Greg sagged forward to brace himself on the edge of the bed, his head bowing between his shoulders. He looked as though he'd taken a physical blow. He tensed, cringing, when Fischer patted his shoulder and spoke quietly to him.

Stacy's eyes followed Fischer's path to the elevator and, once he had disappeared from view, she approached the room.

Greg didn't move until she stepped inside and slid the door shut behind her.

"Enjoy the show?" he asked, raising his eyes to her. His eyelids fell heavily, and he paused, keeping his eyes closed for a moment before his lids fluttered open again.

"You saw me?"

He nodded once. "When Fischer left," he said, plodding towards her. "The bastard wants me to spend tomorrow in the Clinic, as if I'm in_cap_able of successfully treating anything except stuffy noses and ear aches."

"You had a rough day. He probably just wants to give you a rest."

"I don't _need_ a rest. I need—"

He stumbled over himself, grunting. He managed several uncoordinated steps before he grabbed hold of the footboard and steadied himself, breathing hard.

"You need to learn to walk, apparently," Stacy teased, hoping to evoke a grin from him. Instead a hot, red flush crept up his neck, and he lowered his head. A sad grin tugged at her mouth as she raised her hand to stroke the curve of his jaw and slowly tip his chin up. She motioned toward the door with her head. "Come on."

She led him into the corridor, pausing while he instructed a nurse to begin postmortem care, and le him toward the elevator. She was eager to take him to bed, to coax his body and mind to relax with slow, soft touches.

But when her car rolled to a stop outside their apartment, Greg bolted from the passenger seat and, without a word, headed for the door. By the time she stepped into the foyer, toeing off her black pumps, he was perched on the couch and hunched over an open book. Hardcover reference volumes covered the cushions, leaving nothing but the armrest empty.

Biting her bottom lip, she rounded the couch and balanced on the armrest. Her hand slid across his back as she whispered, "Greg, you should come to bed."

He huffed, twisting away from her touch. "Stop it. I'm busy."

She forced a swallow. "You're tired."

"I am not," he said, his eyes still scanning the book.

"Right. You were stumbling over your own feet. You have circles under your eyes. You're--"

Greg turned his head sharply to look at her with mock surprise. "Wow, I didn't know _you_ were a doctor, too. Next time I won't waste my time consulting colleagues and medical texts. I'll just ask _you_."

"What?"

"Tell me, Stacy. What course of treatment would you recommend for someone diagnosed with Candidiasis?"

Her face grew hot, but she resisted from raising a cool hand to the skin. "Greg, I don't—"

"Yeah, you don't know. Because you are _not_ a medical expert, despite what you might think," he snapped, then looked down at his book. "And the correct answer was 150 milligrams of fluconazole, by the way, which you might have known if you actually read the labels on your prescriptions."

Stacy tangled her hands in her hair, fingers locking onto her scalp and pressing. She didn't have the energy for this. Her tongue stumbled over words, and she uttered an incoherent mumble before swiveling to stand and retreating into the bedroom. Fury welled in her stomach as she slammed the door. _Impossible. He was impossible._ She tore off her clothes, then balled up her garments to hurl them, one by one, against the wall.

When she fell onto the bed, she turned her face into the pillow, muffling rapid, hiccuped breaths. Her hand searched for something to hold, and she fisted the bed sheet. Her winter-dry skin stretched painfully over her knuckles, and she repressed a grimace. The audible flip of the panel alarm clock offered a distraction, and she tried to count the minutes. She lost track somewhere around twenty-six when the door opened with a loud, slow creak.

She squeezed her eyes tightly as she listened to the sounds of Greg's shuffling feet against the wood floor and his clothes being stripped from his body. The mattress dipped. Anticipation fluttered in her stomach, and she was suddenly unsure if he would avoid her, keep to one side of the bed, or if he would reach for her. Set aside his damn pride and search her out as earnestly and unreservedly as he hunted for answers.

She felt the bounce of the bed as he shifted within inches of her. His breaths lapped her shoulder like a steady, warm tide. Heat radiated from his body, bridging them and enveloping her with its familiarity. For a moment, she was tempted to lean back, fit her body against his, and allow the angry knots in her shoulders to loosen and vanish, escape into the air like a peace offering. But her stubborn will dictated that she hold out, and she feigned sleep, drawing full, smooth breaths until her ribs ached with the efforts of too-far stretches.

Focused on the rhythm of her own breaths, she never noticed Greg's subtle shift behind her as he propped himself up on one elbow. But when his arm curled around her, her eyes flew open and her breath faltered. He touched her tentatively, his open palm gliding slowly across her stomach and applying so little pressure that her eyes flickered downward to confirm its presence. Stacy's heart thundered, and she would have been surprised if Greg couldn't feel its beat under his hand.

If he knew she was awake, he failed to acknowledge it. He stayed silent as his hand slid to her hip, fingertips dragging across her skin and eliciting a shiver from her. Greg knew the difference between harmless and symptomatic shivers, but before the tremble subsided, he was pulling her against the warm length of him. He waited, stroking his thumb across the pointed bone of her hip, then placed a kiss to the back of her shoulder.

Stacy blinked rapidly to trap the tears that stung her eyes, but felt herself bending to his silent plea for forgiveness. She wanted to speak, tell him that they were all right, that she was glad he was there _now_. She tried to dislodge the scratchy lump in her throat and accidentally released a loud, strangled sob.

Another kiss, longer but no less gentle, fell in the same place as the first. She still felt the warm press of his mouth when she heard his voice, low and barely audible; if he hadn't been so close, she never would have heard him.

"Stacy." He paused for a shallow breath. "Sweetheart."

A hot, burning ache burst outward from the center of her chest, forcing a hard hitch in her breath. Almost in response, Greg pressed his whole body to her, burying his face into the curve of her neck. She felt the gust of a shuddering breath on her skin, felt his chest heave against her back, and she wished that she had the energy to turn and wrap her limbs around him, kiss him anywhere her mouth would reach.

She felt the simultaneous brush of his eyelashes, soft and delicate, and his cheek, rough since his morning shave. It was, she thought, a sensory representation of his personality. An inseparable combination of stubborn and abrasive, playful and warm. She accepted it—accepted _him_—when she moved in, when they joined their bank accounts and executed living wills and health care proxies. When she fell in love with him, endeared to his unique set of qualities that could fill her with fury and affection.

A sudden cool rush of air vanquished her thoughts, her unasked questions, as Greg rolled away, his hand falling to the mattress. Alarm sent her heart into a wild frenzy. She groped behind her to find him in the darkness, and, when she reached his upturned hand, she held it tightly. His fingers wrapped around her hand and squeezed. Then, gently and wordlessly, she guided him back to her.


	4. June 1997

**June 1997**

"Rat."

In the foyer, Greg balanced on one leg as he reached for the laces of his sneaker. "Wow," he said. "Didn't expect name-calling this early in the evening. I haven't even got both of my shoes off."

"No, I saw a rat." From the corner of the couch, Stacy pointed with a stiff arm towards the kitchen. Her knees were pulled to her chest. "Under the sink."

Greg yanked his sneaker from his foot and let it join its fellow on the floor. A little grin pulled at his lips as he sat beside her. "It's just a rat. Besides, I'm sure your banshee-shriek sent it scurrying into the next county."

"I didn't _shriek_. And it's not just a rat. You might as well say 'it's just the plague'."

"Don't be dramatic." He spoke with infuriating nonchalance. His hands dove between the cushions in search of the television remote. "The plague's curable. Ah-ha!" He wagged the remote in triumph.

"Greg!" she hissed. Her hand shot out, striking like an angry cobra, and snatched the remote. "Just get rid of it."

"You know where the traps are."

She spoke in a venomous monotone. "Greg, I'm not kidding."

"You could always turn the poor fuzz-ball into stone. You have this great Gorgon look going on."

"Too bad it doesn't seem to work on you."

He sneered and lunged for the remote. Stacy jerked it out of his reach.

"Gimme," he said, flexing his hand.

"Not until you set a trap." Her mouth formed a tight line across her face. She raised one eyebrow, daring him to refuse. She wasn't above smashing the remote to pieces.

His eyes flickered from the remote to her face. Several seconds passed before he hauled himself off the couch and sighed. "_You_," he said, pointing at her, "are a mystery. You could kill spiders, snakes, God knows what else. Men, probably. But you can't handle one puny, little rat."

He tore open the hallway closet and rummaged through the top shelf, emerging with several traps, before he disappeared into the kitchen. Stacy heard drawers opening, closing. Then, the rattle of silverware, a lid twisting off a plastic jar.

His voice cut through the noise. "You're making me waste good peanut butter for this, you know!"

A grin appeared on her face before she could stop it. When she heard the slap of the trap's wooden base and the sound of the shutting cabinet door, she tossed the remote onto the middle cushion and fled from the room on her tiptoes.

As she reached their bedroom, Greg's voice called out, "Hey! Where'd you go?"

"Bedroom," she shouted. "I don't want to hear crunching bones or snapping necks, thank you very much."

Before she could close the bedroom door, his hand was bracing it open. "I thought you'd derive a twisted sense of pleasure from its death. I was going to make popcorn."

"Well, you can have all of it to yourself. I'd rather not watch its death like a scene out of some B-grade horror movie," she replied.

"But those are best kind," he whined.

Stacy ignored him, turned, and leaped onto the bed. She quickly pulled her feet off the floor before scuttling to the center of the mattress.

A smirk played at the corners of his mouth as he followed her. "I think our house guest is a little more interested in my food than your toes." He sat near her feet at the bottom of the mattress and trailed a finger along her instep. "_Me_, on the other hand—"

"Don't do that." She jerked her foot away from his hand. "It feels like—" She hesitated. Anxiety tunneled through her. It felt like rat feet. Tiny, creeping rat feet. "It feels like _crawling_."

Greg lowered his chin, but kept his eyes focused on her face. "Okay," he said. One hand glided down her arm and settled on her hip. "Something else, then."

As he leaned towards her, Stacy pressed both of her hands to his chest. "What are you doing?"

"Too subtle for you? Fine." He urged her down to the mattress, one knee parting her thighs, and fumbled with the clasp of her pants before pulling them down and off her legs. "Still too subtle?"

Stacy glared at him. "Rats aren't exactly aphrodisiacs, Greg.. Now give me back my pants," she huffed, extending her arm. "Come on. I'm not in the mood for this."

Greg sported a mischievous grin as he climbed over her. "I don't believe you." He laid one forearm across her chest to stop her from wriggling towards the headboard. His other arm reached between their bodies and his hand slipped past the elastic of her panties. When his finger dipped into her and his hum sounded in her ear, Stacy's breaths stalled in her lungs. His finger moved easily within her, and he whispered low in his throat, "_You_ say you're not in the mood, but your body says that you are."

"Greg." Somehow, the acerbic tone she'd intended never made it to her mouth, and she sighed his name in a breathy whimper.

"And so does that." His mouth slipped over hers and his tongue hurried past her lips for a wet, rushed kiss. He tasted like peanut butter. Peanut butter on the trap. Bait for the rat under the sink.

She twisted her head to whisper, "This isn't going to work."

"It'll work." His mouth tried to find hers again.

"I keep thinking about—"

"Well, _don't_." He opened the front of her shirt, then wedged his hands beneath her to unhook her bra.

"But the rat—"

"Isn't interested in you." Her shirt joined her pants at the foot of the bed. Nylon straps slid down her arms and her bra lifted away from her breasts. Greg kissed patterns where the fabric had been and spoke against her skin. "Poor creature has no idea what it's missing."

Stacy struggled to preserve her feeble threads of resistance. "But—but if—" Her own shudder cut her off as his kisses dropped below her navel. "—if it sneaks in—"

"You'll be too preoccupied to notice."

Soon the last frayed thread broke away as Greg tossed her panties over his shoulder and pressed open-mouthed kisses at her entrance. Stacy felt the involuntary rise of her hips, the hiccup of her breath with each drag of his tongue, and her anxiety gave way to a new brand of tension. She twisted the sheets with her hands. Her head rolled on the pillow. When her legs began to quiver, he rose up to strip to his boxer briefs and push them to his knees. In his eyes, she caught flickers of unspoken, unguarded desire for her and she offered an affectionate grin as she reached for him. Her fingers wrapped around his shaft and she gently pulled him down to lie on top of her. His hands slid beneath her shoulders as his hips canted forward, his erection rubbing against her. She held him fast to her, allowing herself to take comfort in the full press of his weight, in his lines and contours.

During their first few weeks, she had mapped the terrain of his body—textures of skin, planes and curves of muscle, freckle patterns, scars. Each touch, each exploration, had yielded new discoveries until she knew his body better than her own, and she guarded that intimate knowledge of him more fiercely than her own secrets. Closing her eyes, she traced winding lines onto his shoulder blades. He shivered, tucking his face into her neck, and his breath flowed hot and even across her skin. When he moved above her to brace himself on his arms, a loud squeak sounded from below them, and anxiety made a strong comeback. Stacy nearly threw him off her.

"Where is it?" Her eyes scanned as much of the floor as she could see.

Greg stared at her, stunned. "It?"

"The _rat_!" She worked hard to keep from stammering. "Under the bed? Maybe it's in the closet." She tried to close her legs and draw them to her chest, but Greg held them open with his knees.

"Or _maybe_ the rat's in your imagination."

"I heard—"

"You heard the _bed_springs." He bounced on the bed and the squeak sounded again.

"No," she said. She felt her ears growing hot with embarrassment. "No, it was a rat. I heard it."

"I could understand being scared of rats, but bedsprings? Really?"

"Stop it." She closed her eyes, desperate to suffocate the images flashing in her head—ugly rat tails, clawed feet, beady black eyes, matted fur.

"That's just pathetic."

"I'm serious."

"Are you afraid of Slinkys, too?"

"God damn it, Greg," she growled. "Shut the hell up."

Stacy raked her nails over his back, hoping to shock him into silence. He drew a sharp breath as he arched, eyes shut tightly. Her legs closed around his waist, and she pressed her heels into the back of his thighs to force him closer. His hands started to roam over her, but as her teeth tugged at his earlobe, he answered with a firm grip on her shoulder, a squeeze of her breast. When she clutched his ass, Greg's gasp-groan exploded near her ear, and she suddenly wanted to fuck him so hard that she lost herself in a thick, fuzzy cloud of incoherency. No thoughts, no words, no damned rats.

With more force than she intended, she heaved him off of her in an effort to get him on his back. His eyes widened with surprise as his legs tangled in his boxer briefs, and he toppled off the bed, limbs flailing. He landed on the floor with a heavy grunt. Bewilderment wrinkled his brow, and she fought a giggle as she reached down and gave a hard yank on his arm.

"_Je_sus. Don't rip my arm off. I happen to like my limbs," he grumbled and kicked out of his underwear as she dragged him onto the bed and pushed him onto his back.

"Don't be a baby." She didn't give him a chance to retort and kissed him with hurried, savage energy. Her fingers curled around his head to hold him still as one leg swung over his body to straddle him. She gathered handfuls of hair and pulled roughly, pleased when his mouth opened to her and his moan tumbled down her throat. Her tongue pushed into his mouth as unmercifully as she ground against him, and he _writhed_ under her, breaths leaving him in hot gusts through his nose. She felt him strain against her hands and broke away, rising up. He was fighting for breath as if she had tried to drown him.

"Fuck," he panted. "Slow down for a second."

She knew that she should. Greg was almost hyperventilating. A deep red flush had already started to creep into his face. She ran the back of her hand along his forehead, gathering sweat and giving them both a moment to breathe.

Except for the rasp of his breathing, the room fell silent. Stacy laid a hand on his chest and felt its rapid rise and fall. He tilted his head back and exposed the column of his throat, conjuring a snapshot memory that had nothing to do with rats, or traps, or Skippy peanut butter. Only the two of them, Greg pinned beneath her on his couch, surrounded by the scents of leather and abandoned coffee, her mouth closing over a stray fleck of blue paint—the first mark she had ever left on him—just to the left of his Adam's apple, his groan filling her ears for the first time. She wanted to kiss that spot, remember the smooth feel of dried paint on damp skin, but she reached down instead, laying her finger where her lips had first touched his body. She heard his breath stutter and spotted the hint of a grin on his face.

"Come 'ere," he breathed, lightly tugging on her hand to draw her against him.

"You'll overheat," she said, fighting against his pull.

He huffed. "For God's sake, I'm not a _car_ engine."

She eyed him for a moment. The red, blotchy flush started to fade to a smooth shade of coral.

"Come on," he said. "You know I don't beg."

She must have hesitated a second too long, because his hand reached up to the nape of her neck and pulled her down, loosening when her tongue dipped into the salty hollow of his collarbone. A long, deep hum traveled through his body; it tickled her lips, and she smiled, rising up to find him watching her, his own smile gracing his mouth. As she trailed her index finger down the center of his body, his smile started to fade. It vanished entirely when she curled her fingers around his erection, holding him upright as she lowered herself onto him.

She never bothered with a slow build; she only paused to recover from the initial crash of their hips. Setting a frenzied, almost sloppy pace, she rocked hard, flattened her palms on his chest, and pressed him into the mattress with each downward motion.

Greg grunted quietly to her unsteady rhythm, words slipping out him between breaths. "Yeah. Stacy--oh, God, yeah. That's it. Come on, Stace." His hands gripped her thighs, fingertips digging into muscle, and he met her with heady, powerful strokes.

Her mouth fell open as she watched his chin tilt towards the ceiling and the muscles in his body tense beneath the skin. She imagined dragging her tongue across each muscle group—he had taught her most of them—but she didn't want to compromise the rhythm, not when delicious tingle-burns were already licking up the insides of her thighs. She felt heat spread from her cheeks to her chest. Sweat started to appear along her forehead, her temples. Each meeting of their bodies jolted her, delivering bolts of warm pleasure. Greg pushed himself into her deeply, and she welcomed the pressure of him. The sensation fought with the dull ache beginning in her legs, and she gasped toward the ceiling. "Oh, God. Greg. _Yes_. There, Greg. _There_."

The steady burn between her legs escalated into raging flames when she felt Greg's touch on her clit, his thumb rubbing tiny circles. Stacy closed her eyes, squeezed them tightly, as her head fell forward and her orgasm crashed over her, shots of spring-loaded pleasure surging through her. Her legs trembled, but her knees were still drawn tightly against Greg's body. She felt the rigid jerk of his hips as Greg arched beneath her with his orgasm. She heard his voice--her name, a loud, low groan--over her own breaths before she bent over him to bury her face into the side of his neck. His pulse beat hard and fast against the tip of her nose, and she shifted her face to kiss it.

When their breaths and heartbeats slowed to normal, Stacy felt his arm wrap around her, and he held her against him as he rolled with her. With one hand burrowed into her hair, he pulled out of her body, his penis dragging their combined wetness across the inside of her thigh. It wasn't until her eyelids fluttered closed that he dropped a kiss on her shoulder, then rolled away from her. The bed shifted, and his weight was gone. But his residual heat still warmed the sheets beside her and it lulled her to sleep before Greg ever left the bedroom.

Hours later, she awoke to a dark room. She shuffled out of bed, threw her terry cloth robe around herself, and peeked into the hall. In the living room, Greg lounged on the couch, his arm resting along the top of the cushions, his hand holding a bottle of beer. The room was dim; only the flickering glow of the television lit his face.

As she swayed sleepily towards him, her movements drew his attention. Glancing from her feet to her face, he smiled.

"You missed the execution," he said and nodded to a baseball bat propped against the bookcase.

"You killed it? With _that_? What about the trap?" She gently shoved his legs off the couch and sank down next to him.

"I thought about letting him live. If I got laid like _that_ every time you saw a rat—"

She slapped his arm with the back of her hand and shot him a disapproving look.

"I saw him make a run for the front door." His free arm came around her to draw her against him.

"Brave." She let her head fall back against his shoulder, feeling sated, comfortable.

"But stupid."

She reached for his beer and took a swig before handing it back to him. "Thank you," she whispered and gently rubbed his leg.

"Told you it would work," he said, smugness heavy in his voice, and kissed the top of her head before turning his face back to the television.


	5. November 1997

**November 1997**

Greg's eyes followed her to and from the living room as Stacy cleared their dinner plates from the coffee table. She paid him little attention, her mind overtaken with the details of her upcoming trial-depositions, the sloppy draft of her opening statement, tomorrow's client preparation. When she bypassed the couch and reached for the binder and legal pad protruding from her bag, Greg sighed quietly.

"Stacy, stop."

Bent at the knees, she glanced over her shoulder to find him staring at her, hunched in his seat. His thumb idly stroked the bowl of his wine glass. Stacy's sigh echoed his, guilt surfacing to pull her mouth into a frown.

"Honey," she said apologetically, "thank you for dinner. I really appreciated it, but I need to get this work done. I have to review my statement and organize all my case notes. They're a mess. I'm sorry."

He ignored her gratitude and her apology. "The case doesn't even go to trial until Thursday. You're already working ahead of schedule. You could afford to take a night off."

"I need to prepare."

"You'll be fine. Come on, sit down."

She eyed him, unable to repress a smile when he thrust his bottom lip out and batted widened eyes at her. "A few hours," she relented, sitting beside him and accepting the full wine glass he offered her. "That's all."

"That's all I need." He refilled his own glass. "That's more than enough time for you to mellow out and release some pent-up sexual tension, right here, bent over the back of the couch" he said, growling and craning his head to nuzzle her neck.

"More than enough time for me to get you off, you mean? No, if I'm going to take a break, I'm not doing any kind of work."

He pressed a line of kisses over her jaw. "I don't expect you to. You never do any of the work when you're drunk. You're surprisingly submissive."

"I'm not drunk."

"Not yet."

"Greg, you're not going to get me drunk with a few glasses of cheap, ten-dollar merlot." She flattened one hand against his chest and shoved him into the cushions, the wine in his hand nearly spilling out of his glass. He scowled at her. "Oh, don't look at me like that. You know it takes more than this"-she raised her glass-"to get me drunk. Get a few stiff drinks in _you_, on the other hand, and you'll be the one bent over the back of the couch."

His scowl deepened, his eyes squinting at her. "No way I'm that easy, not even for you."

"Easier." Lips touching the rim of the glass, she muttered under her breath, "You're such a lightweight."

"What?" He shifted to face her, haphazardly setting his glass on the coffee table, where it teetered for a moment before coming to rest. "What did you say? I'm a _what_?"

She sipped her wine, smirking. "A _lightweight_," she replied, over-pronouncing each syllable. "You're a lightweight."

"I am not." As if to prove a point, he scooped up his glass and drained it.

A snort accompanied a disbelieving laugh. "So I assume your performance at last month's fundraiser was, what, a spontaneous audition for the role of Trinculo? You had five drinks and-"

"Five and a half. Learn to count."

"-you _some_how fell off your bar stool, your _stationary_ bar stool, giggling like a little boy. I wasn't sure if I should get you a wheelchair or a set of building blocks."

He dramatically slapped his hand over his chest, gasping. "Thou liest, most ignorant monster," he accused. "_You_ had to take your heels off because you couldn't walk across the room without twisting your ankle, which I had to wrap, by the way. I also seem to recall a messy blowjob that was a clear indication of-"

"You lost the ability to recall much of anything around your third J&B. At least I was lucid," she said. A grin pulled at her mouth when he scoffed.

He pointed a finger at her, its tip inches from her nose. "Listen, _I_ was tossing back hard liquor while _you_ were sipping at weak cocktails. You can't compare our respective tolerance for alcohol based on that experience. It has to be done systematically, in a controlled setting. We have to consume equal amounts of the same alcohol, at the same time. But I am _certain_ that spending a few hours nursing a couple Cosmopolitans without collapsing does _not_ give you bragging rights."

For a moment, she held his stare, recognizing the unspoken challenge scrolling across his eyes like a flashing marquee. She calmly lowered her glass to the table without breaking eye contact, raised her eyebrow, and said, "Okay, Greg, if you want to turn this into a science experiment, fine, I'm game." Without waiting for a response, she rose from the couch and strode into the kitchen.

"We're not using my good stuff," he warned, "especially if you're just going to puke it up in a few hours."

"You finished your 'good stuff' with Wilson two nights ago," she called. When Stacy returned, she carried an unopened bottle that she had stashed in the corner of the cabinet and a pair of tumblers, both filled with ice. She offered the bottle for Greg's inspection. "We'll use this instead."

Greg's brows furrowed. "What is it?"

She gasped in mock-horror. "What? You mean, you don't actually know _everything_?" She returned his glower with a playful grin. "It's Ouzo, from Greece."

"Really? Because all those Greek letters on the bottle made me believe it was from _Japan_."

"You just asked me-"

"What it is, not where it's from. Come to think of it, though, where _is_ it from?"

"Greg, I just said-"

"Yeah, Greece, but where did _you_ get it?"

She sighed, exasperated, and pulled the cork from the bottle. "Weiss, about two weeks ago, after he came back from his Mediterranean cruise. He bought a bottle for everyone in the office."

"That's an odd gift for an employee, isn't it?"

"Jealous?" she asked, filling their glasses to cover the ice, the clear liquid turning a milky white.

"No," he answered, fitting one hand around his glass. "It's just not every day your boss presents you with foreign liquor." He raised the glass to his nose for a sniff. "Wow, what the hell is this made with, licorice?"

"Aniseed. It's similar," she said, watching him warily peek over the rim of his glass. "Greg, stop, you like licorice. There isn't much of a difference."

"Yeah, except you don't _drink_ licorice."

"Oh, stop whining. Any more and you'll have to forfeit."

"Forfeit? I thought this was a science experiment."

Stacy shook her head and grinned, raising the glass to her lips. "This was never an experiment." His sly smirk confirmed her suspicion. "Now shut up and drink. I don't have all night and I'm looking forward to drinking you under the table."

"That's seven." Coming out of Greg's mouth, however, the words sounded more like "thaseben", sloppy and slurred together.

Somehow the two of them had migrated from the couch to the floor and now shared one corner of the coffee table. Greg spun his empty glass on its edge like a toy top, leaving trails of condensation across the table's wooden surface. Stacy caught the glass in mid-spin and poured him a refill.

As she filled her own glass, he suddenly spoke. "You know, Greece has the tenth longest coastline in the world." Before she could manage an answer, he continued. "Canada has the longest. I think the U.S. is seventh. No, eighth." He swirled the contents of his glass, tipped his head back, and swallowed his eighth round, hissing as it went down.

Stacy followed suit. "Eight," she said, wiping a runaway dribble from the corner of her mouth. "You can rank countries by the length of their coastlines?"

He shrugged, reaching for the bottle to refill his own glass. "Just the first ten." He closed one eye in thought. "Canada, Norway, Indonsia-" He frowned, then carefully pronounced, "Indo_nes_ia, Russia-"

Stacy held her hand up. "No, stop. It's okay. I believe you."

"I also know the English translation of the Greek national anthem. Well," he added, "the first ten verses, but there's, what, a hundred and fifty of them? Something like that. I bet you don't know the first five," he challenged, raising his glass to his lips.

"No," she said, smugness creeping into her voice, "but I don't have to memorize the English translation. I can read the _Greek_ one."

Greg's glass never made it to his mouth. He stared at her, lowering it back to the table. "What? Really?"

She nodded, grinning. "Really."

His eyes searched her face. "Prove it," he said, pushing the bottle towards her.

She twisted it to find a paragraph on the back label. "You want me to read this?"

"Unless you have any other Greek texts lying around, yeah."

She chewed on her bottom lip, scanning the lines of alphas and omicrons, lambdas and upsilons. It had been a while. "I haven't translated anything in a long time," she said. "So it might be a little rough, just so you know."

Greg braced one arm behind him and shifted his weight, nearly toppling onto his side as his hand swept through the air, urging her to continue.

She sighed and, occasionally stopping and starting, read, "Isidor Arvanitis combines aromatic seeds and botanicals from Lesvos with the sovereign aniseed from Lisvori, which is considered the best in the world, creating a unique Ouzo."

He gazed at her with a mixture of scrutiny and fascination. "Are you sure that's what it says? You didn't just make that up?" Leaning over the table, he pulled the bottle close to his face.

"Jesus, Greg, I could dig up my Greek-to-English dictionary and prove it to you." She kept the book hidden with a box of family mementos, stuffed in the back of the bedroom closet. She hadn't opened the box in seven years; after her mother's death, there had been no need.

Greg pressed his index finger to his chin, considering her offer. "Well, if you don't mind..."

Huffing a frustrated breath, Stacy stood abruptly. She held her arms out and searched for balance as she swayed where she stood, the world tilting on a diagonal. Shaking her head as if to clear it, she blinked and righted herself, turned, and walked into their bedroom. Minutes later, she returned to find Greg draining another glass full of Ouzo. She dropped the paperback near his leg. "Here, check for yourself."

Greg spent a few minutes matching words, noisily flipping pages, mumbling words to himself. Apparently satisfied, he raised his face to her and patted the open book. "You used this often," he asserted. "Lots of notes, dog-eared pages. Did you have a childhood pen pal or something?"

Still standing above him, her arms crossed, she said, "Greg, it doesn't matter. You're barely going to remember this in the morning anyway."

"Was it a foreign lover?"

"I had a grandmother. She sent me letters."

"In Greek?"

"Considering she was from Greece, yes. She never learned English, so I learned Greek. Well, I learned it well enough to translate it and write some basic sentences, but that's all."

Greg dropped his head to the book, his fingers rapidly shuffling through the pages. When he reached the last page, he opened the book wide and extracted several tiny bordered photographs, their colors muted and dull. Stacy crouched next to him, suddenly filled with bittersweet nostalgia as her eyes fell on the images. She breathed a soft laugh. "My grandmother," she said, reaching for one of the photographs, "also sent me these. She said that she hoped I could visit and see all of these places for myself." Stacy traced her finger over a blue window shutter-she knew the colors were bold in person, shockingly vibrant against the smooth white walls of the buildings, all constructed in the style so common to the Cyclades it had become a cliché among westerners. "But this is as much as I've seen of Greece." She put the picture on top of the others and took the book from Greg's hands, closing it.

Greg's voice broke the silence. "Well, this is getting too sentimental for me and I need to take a piss." He stumbled, throwing out a hand to brace himself on the arm of the couch as he stood.

Stacy rose with him and grasped his forearm to steady him. "I think it's about time to quit our experiment anyway," she said, leading him towards the bathroom.

His arm curled around her shoulders, the tips of his fingers digging into the muscle. He swayed as he walked. "Does that mean I won?"

"I think you lost, Greg. You can hardly walk."

"No, I won. You said you were quitting. That means _you_ lost."

Stacy opened her mouth to argue, but he tripped over his own foot and crashed against the wall. She slipped her arm around his back and helped him regain his footing, fighting a smile and uttering, "Yeah, you won all right."

"What?"

"Nothing," she said, guiding him into the bathroom. As she turned to leave him to his business, she called, "Try not to fall into the toilet. I'm not fishing you out."

As he unzipped his jeans, he shot her a playful sneer, which she returned before shutting the door. When he left the bathroom, his hands still damp with water, he reached for her and his arm returned to her shoulders as they silently shuffled across the hall.

Greg fell face-first into bed, raising his arms above his head to hug his pillow. Stacy undressed and managed to strip him to his shirt and shorts before stretching out beside him, her head fuzzy with alcohol and exhaustion. She turned on her side, one hand sliding up his back, over his neck, into his hair. Her fingers played with the strands, smoothing unruly pieces at the crown of his head as a warm smile spread across her face. She lifted her arm as he shifted onto his side to face her, his arm falling heavily over her hip. Closing his eyes, he shimmied down the length of the bed to nuzzle her breasts. As he dropped a clumsy kiss between them, he mumbled, "I love your breasts."

She stroked her hand through his hair, a laugh dancing up her throat. "Thank you, honey. Go to sleep."

"I love you."

Stacy's breath hitched and skittered out of her. Her eyes closed. Her arms circled around him, hands slipping under his shirt to press against his back and draw him closer to her. Stroking between his shoulder blades, she ducked her head and whispered into his hair, "I love you, too."

Within minutes his body relaxed in her arms and his breath, warm against her skin, evened to a steady rhythm. Briefly, her thoughts fluttered to her work, untouched and unfinished in her bag. Greg stirred beside her, his arm tightening around her as he slept. A deep sigh left her, and Stacy brushed her thumb over his cheekbone, deciding to let the defense rest until the morning.


	6. February 1998

**February 1998**

Alone in the Houses' master bathroom, Stacy rinsed the bristles of her toothbrush. As she hunched over the vanity, immaculate and nimbus-white against the room's rich blue palette, she rolled her shoulders, knotted with the strain of the evening.

A week ago, she and Greg had discovered a brief, stern phone message from his father. "The family is celebrating your mother's sixtieth birthday on Sunday," he'd said. "I'll expect you for dinner on Saturday, and your mother wants to meet the woman you've been living with, so bring her with you."

Despite Greg's best attempts to acquire a weekend shift and avoid his father's summons, they had arrived, two corked bottles of anxiety, on time for dinner on Saturday evening. The front door had opened to reveal a short, broadly smiling woman who spread her arms to her son, gathering him against her for a long embrace. A moment later, formal introductions still in progress, Stacy had found herself similarly engulfed, a "wonderful to finally meet you, dear" in her ear.

Blythe's open and amiable welcome had been diluted by John's reserved one. He'd extended no physical greeting beyond a faint-but not unkind-smile and an invitation to sit at the table. Stacy had pretended to dismiss Greg's tense grip on his fork and smiled when John had half-teased, a chuckle in his voice when he'd expressed his gratitude that she'd survived Greg's hazardous driving to afford them the opportunity to meet. Over dinner, John had abandoned attempts to engage Greg in conversation and instead inquired about Stacy's profession, her education, her family. She had responded with polite diplomacy until John had remarked in a sober tone that Greg's life could use the balance and stability of a woman and a family. Stacy's cheeks had flushed hot, Greg's body had stiffened, and Blythe had stood from her seat, announcing that she had baked an apple crisp for dessert.

After dinner, Greg had pulled her close to him on the sofa, his hip and thigh flush against hers, while Blythe guided the conversation, asking about Greg's practice and sharing family news-"Aunt Sarah's a grandmother now. Rachel had a baby boy, Zachary, last month." Greg had squirmed beside her, reached for her hand, and linked their fingers together until the four of them had adjourned to their respective bedrooms, tension rising from him like a vapor.

Stacy splashed water around the drain, careful to clear the sink of toothpaste smears, capped her travel toothbrush case, and stuffed it into their leather toiletry bag. Blythe had laid out a bar of soap and a pair of washcloths, and Stacy soaped one of the cloths, bending low over the basin to wash her face. She massaged the soap across her skin leisurely, lazily, prolonging her private time to unwind.

Face refreshed but still damp, she stepped into the hall, bare feet halting and ears perking at the faint sounds of voices drifting from behind the closed door to her left. Helplessly drawn to the door, paranoia churned inside her as she strained to hear the conversation, alert for signs of disappointment or disapproval. The first words she distinguished, however, resonated with approval, high, breathy approval: _"Yes_, that's it, John. _Yes._" Stacy's hand clapped over her mouth to muffle her gasp as she fled, darting to the guest room on her toes.

Giggles fought their way up her throat as she closed the guest room door, but Greg's face sobered her enough to swallow her laughter. When his eyes fell on her, pressed against the door, his brows angled sharply and the furrows in his forehead deepened. He squinted at her.

His voice revealed a tinge of annoyance. "What?"

Stacy bit her lip, reluctant to relay what she'd heard, and cast her eyes to the floor.

"Oh, _stop_ with the scared little girl routine. It's been a week, for God's sake." He strode to the door and laid his hands on her shoulders.

"No, Greg, it's not-"

"For the last time, Stacy, Pennywise is _not_ hiding in the drain. I swear, I'm never watching another scary movie with you again." He guided her away from the door. "Now scoot."

"Where are you going?"

He jerked his thumb towards the hall. "Bathroom. Gingivitis isn't sexy, you know."

"No." She shimmied into the narrow space between Greg and the door, blocking his path. "You can't."

"Don't worry. I can fight off killer clowns. I'll be safe." He reached around her for the doorknob.

"No, I mean, you _shouldn't_. You shouldn't, uh, go down there."

"Why?"

"Because..."

He raised his eyebrows. "_Because_...?"

She shook her head, fighting a grin, fingers toying with her hair. "You _really_ don't want to know."

"Oh, no. No, don't tease me like that," he said, pointing at her. "I hate teases."

A smile spread over her face as she flattened her hands on his chest and fanned her fingers wide. "You _love_ teases," she said and slid her hands over his shoulders, rising on tiptoe to kiss his mouth. The tip of her tongue traced his bottom lip and drew a quiet hum from his throat before she broke away, dragging her fingertips over his body.

His persistence, however, refused to rest. As his eyelids fluttered open, he asked, "So, seriously, what's the big secret? Do I need to torture it out of you?"

"Greg," she said, "I know you have an innate need to satisfy your in_term_inable curiosity, but, trust me, you'll be sorry to hear this."

He sighed. "Yeah, yeah. Come on, spill it."

"Please, just let it go."

"Tell me or I'll find out for myself." He paused, drumming his fingers on the small of her back. When she refused to reply, he steered her clear of the door and opened it. "Fine," he declared. "I'm going."

One of his feet stepped into the hall before Stacy blurted, rapid-fire, "Your parents are having sex!"

Greg froze. One heel dug into the plush carpet. His knees and elbows locked. His muscles flexed, bulging with tension. He pivoted to face her, feet still firmly planted, stunned. He stared at her, his eyes as huge and wide as a barn owl's. His mouth opened, closed, opened again before he finally stuttered, "What? They're-they're _what_?"

"Well, they _were_," she replied, smirking. She linked her arm with his and gently pulled him back into the room, closing the door. "I don't know if they're finished yet. I didn't stick around for the finale."

He unlinked their arms and paced a horseshoe around the bed. He stopped, blinked. "They were-_what_?"

"At first, I just thought they were talking," she explained, her voice wavering with repressed laughter, "but then I heard your mom-"

"Whoa! Stop, _stop_! I don't need the nasty details, thank you." He glared at her, adding, "Will you _stop_ smiling?"

Her cheeks ached with the effort of assuming a straight face. "I'm sorry, honey, but-"

"No, stop it. It's not funny."

"Well, consider yourself lucky that you didn't actually _hear_ it. You would have been truly traumatized, I'm sure."

"Oh, yes, I'm _so_ relieved. Thank you for reminding me of my good fortune."

"You're such a drama queen," she said, stripping off her shirt, preparing for bed. "It's really not a big deal."

"Sure, not to you." He followed her example, speaking while his head was still caught beneath the fabric. "They're not _your_ parents." He balled up his t-shirt and tossed it onto their closed suitcase. "Maybe we should leave," he said. "We never should have come in the first place. Let's just go."

"Go where? You're practically undressed. You might as well just-"

"Here," he said, scrambling to pick up their shirts from the floor. He pressed hers against her chest. "Just throw this back on. We could find a hotel or something."

She pitched her shirt over his shoulder and replied before it struck the floor. "Right, let's wander an area that neither of us is familiar with, in the middle of the night, on the off-chance of finding an available hotel. Brilliant."

"We could always sleep in the car."

"It's February. It's twenty degrees outside."

"So we'll bundle up, take a few blankets. I'll even snuggle with you."

"We can't leave."

He bounced on his toes, whining, "Why not?"

"Because," she said, a grin pulling at her lips, "it's your mother's birthday, and she's gone out of her way to feed us, make us feel welcome and comfortable. She'll be hurt when she finds out that you spent the night in your car." Stacy circled her arms around his waist, her fingers playing along his spine.

"She'll never know. We could sneak back into the house before she wakes up."

"So, tomorrow morning, when she asks you if the bed was comfortable or if you slept well, you'll, what, lie? You told me it's impossible to lie to her."

He sighed, closing his eyes and tipping his face towards the ceiling. A soft, frustrated growl rumbled out of him. "Fine, _fine_, we'll stay," he said, pressing the heels of his hands to his forehead.

Stacy dropped a kiss to his collar bone, hands stroking over his ribs. Her fingers slipped past the waistband of his boxer-briefs, over his hips. "Come on, Greg, let's go to bed. It's been a long day. You need some sleep."

He huffed a tiny laugh. "Yeah, unfortunately, unless I have the help of a tranquilizer, or alcohol, or a handful of sleeping pills, I doubt I'll be getting much sleep."

Stacy rolled her eyes, shoving him towards the bed. "Oh, grow up, Greg," she said, shedding the rest of her clothes and burrowing beneath the blankets. "You're a mature adult," she paused, then added, "well, physically anyway." Before switching off the bedside lamp, she noticed his scowl. "You'll get over it."

"Christ, just let it go," Stacy said, shifting on her side to face Greg, who lay stiffly beside her, blinking at the ceiling.

"Can't," he mumbled and shifted restlessly, legs thrashing beneath the bedcovers. "I'd like to see you try to sleep with a bad, never-ending porno stuck in _your_ head." His heel struck her shin like a ball-peen hammer.

"Damn it, Greg," she hissed. One hand wrapped around his forearm, squeezing fiercely; the other soothed the sting in her leg. "Lay still or, I swear, I'll knock you out myself. There's a nice, thick hardcover on the dresser."

He rolled onto his back. "For the love of God, do it." A groan dragged out of him, his knuckles kneading his temples. "I can practically _hear_ the bedsprings."

Stacy pursed her lips, willingly succumbing to a temptation to heighten his discomfort. "Actually," she said, "I couldn't exactly hear any bedsprings above all the heavy breathing."

He squeezed his eyes shut, covered his face with his hands. "Ugh, Stace, what-why would you-that's just-why?"

"Because you wouldn't let me sleep for days, creeping up on me, taunting me with that damn clown voice. Now _I_ get to terrorize _you_. You were right; it is fun."

Greg uttered a strangled whine and covered his face with a pillow.

She propped herself on her elbow, cheerfully musing, "I always thought your parents had a more regimented, Puritanical approach to sex. Procreation purposes only." She grinned when he curled the edges of the pillow around his head. "I bet your mother's always on the bottom."

From beneath the pillow, his muffled voice pleaded, "Please stop."

Stacy's grin morphed into a full open-mouthed smile. "Your father probably has a cadence rhythm, keeps time in his head." In a military beat, she chanted, "In, out, in, out, in. In, out-"

"As much as I appreciate the digs at my dad," he said, lifting the pillow and drawing a deep breath, "I'd appreciate it even _more_ if you'd shut up. How would you like it if I told you that your boss is 'secretly' having an affair with your department secretary?"

Stacy's brows furrowed, temporarily taken aback. "Oh my God. Really?"

He raised one eyebrow, nodded.

Her nose wrinkled. "What a pig. That's disgusting."

"See?"

"Okay, it's more than I'd like to know, but it's not exactly _mortifying. _I don't have to hug my secretary goodnight when I leave the office. You, on the other hand, have the sonly duty of kissing your mom's cheek before you leave. Who knows what touched her cheek tonight."

Even in the dark, his glare smoldered. "If you don't shut up, I'll deposit a dirty little souvenir on _your_ cheek," he threatened, miming several swift jerks with a closed fist.

"Oh, please," she scoffed, a smile playing on her lips as she turned her back to him. "You wouldn't be able to get it up now if I brought in a dozen swimsuit models." As she settled her head on the pillow, she felt the firm grip of his hand on her shoulder pulling her onto her back.

He shifted over her, his lips brushing the shell of her ear as he whispered, his voice low, "You should know by now that I don't need a dozen swimsuit models."

Stacy's smile lost its smugness as his knee parted her legs and his open mouth pressed a kiss behind her ear. He slid his hand over her neck and palmed her breast, canting his hips forward to rub against her, already semi-hard in his briefs. Her chin tipped upwards as her back arched-a helpless, automatic reaction. When he turned her head to the side and traced the cord of muscle in her neck with his tongue, a quiet moan broke in her throat. His whole body jerked against her, and she felt him grow full and hard between her legs.

"See," he breathed against her skin. "That's all I need."

When Greg ambled down the stairs the following morning, fresh from the shower, Stacy intercepted him outside of the kitchen. She stood on her toes to kiss his cheek, wrapping her arms around his neck. "Good morning," she said.

"Morning," he replied. "I smell breakfast."

"Blueberry pancakes. I'm going to help your mom in the kitchen, scramble some eggs," she said, curling her fingers into his hair, still damp from the shower. She dropped her voice to a whisper. "Do you think they heard us last night?"

He shrugged, smiling. "I don't know. Why do you care?"

"Because it's not exactly the best first impression."

"Well, you should have thought of that last night, when you were naked and moaning like a-"

She slapped her palm against his chest. "Greg."

"Oh, relax. If my dad heard, he's not going to say anything, because he knows it'll embarrass my mom, and, if _she_ heard, she's probably hoping we just conceived her first grandchild, so I wouldn't worry."

Stacy dropped her chin to his shoulder, releasing a soft groan as Greg's arms curled around her and pulled her against him. She peered into the kitchen where Blythe was flipping a pancake at the stove. A sigh caught in her throat when Blythe met her eyes and, smiling broadly, winked at her.

Throughout breakfast, the red blush in Stacy's cheeks refused to fade. Blythe's smile lasted the entire day.


	7. March 1998

**March 1998**

Stacy trailed Greg as he stormed towards the door, shouting at the back of his head, "Fine! Go!"

At the door, Greg whirled to face her. His arm quivered as his fingers gripped the doorknob. Though he'd been quiet for a few minutes, a red flush still colored his skin and deep lines creased his forehead. His lips, tight and straight, opened as he bellowed, "Fine!"

The word burst from his gut like an atomic explosion. She hugged her body and closed her eyes tightly as the door slammed shut. The needle of Greg's turntable jumped, but apart from the flutter of her hair, Stacy stood motionless, air stuttering out of her nostrils.

When Stacy was a girl, her mother had told her to count. "Count to sixty, one-hundred, one-hundred-and-fifty," she'd said. "Concentrate on the numbers. They can't make you angry. They're only numbers."

Stacy reached "two" and realized that her mother had been mistaken. Blinking rapidly against the sting in the corners of her eyes, she counted the numbers that marked the frustration that had been building for weeks. _Two_. She and Greg hadn't eaten a full meal together in two weeks. _Three_. She had only seen him for an hour, sometimes less, every day for three weeks. _Four_. She hadn't touched him, made love with him, in four.

She pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes, exhaling shakily before dropping them to her sides. Her eyes swept the room, noticing that the canvas painting above the fireplace had shifted and now hung off-kilter. One of its corners pointed to a shallow dent in the wall. Greg's pager, cracked into pieces, lay at the base of it. Stacy lurched past their unfinished plates of moussaka and scooped the pieces off the floor, closing her fist around them. The sharp edges hurt, but couldn't approach the pain they'd caused as a whole piece, when the thing had wailed as if it were _alive_ and dragged Greg away from her.

At first, she'd followed him. Standing beside the phone, she'd fisted his t-shirt, pulled him to her, ignoring the béchamel sauce at the corner of his mouth, and kissed him. He'd never voiced it, but the regret had been apparent in his eyes and his swallow visible in his throat as he'd lifted the receiver and dialed. As he'd laced his sneakers, she'd exercised her last option; she'd boxed him into a corner and pushed for a fight, unwilling to watch the hospital consume him like the gaping, swirling mouth of Charybdis. She'd realized too late, when his regret had vanished and he'd started shouting, that she was fighting the wrong person.

Squeezing her fist, Stacy stalked into the kitchen, wound up, and hurled the remnants of Greg's pager into the trash can. She grunted as they left her hand, channeling her frustrations, her fears, and loneliness into the swing of her arm. Her hands clutched the rim of the can, her body threatening to crumple as the plastic pieces cut through a bunch of rotten cherry tomatoes. Greg would have liked them, she thought, if he'd known about them.

~~~

A cocktail of paranoia, self-doubt, and guilt drew her out the house. En route to the hospital, she detoured to the nearest Wawa for two cups of coffee-a meager offering, but the most appropriate ice-breaker available to her, besides perhaps a stripper-gram, at one-thirty a.m. She had doubts, but paired with an apology, she hoped the gesture would begin to repair the damage she'd caused before he'd left. While she hardly expected complete forgiveness, she would attempt to take a baby-step toward it.

Both coffee cups nearly tumbled out of their holders, however, when Stacy spotted Greg's car four blocks from the hospital. She swerved suddenly into an open space along the curb, staring at the flickering sign of The Vine, one of Princeton's local dives. Her mind immediately formed conclusions-Greg didn't want to be found, didn't want to come home, didn't want to see her-but she squashed them. Drawing a long, deep breath, she abandoned the still-warm Styrofoam cups and, five minutes later, hunkered in a tattered, pea soup-green booth, twisting her hands beneath her table.

Greg sat ten feet away, his head bowed over a wet glass of bourbon. He had been nursing it for a while; the ice cubes in his glass had melted to flat, dime-sized discs. Both of his hands cupped the glass as if he were shielding it, and he guided it through a puddle of condensation, painting several clear strokes before tipping it to his mouth.

A red-haired woman accompanied him. A caked layer of make-up hid a set of otherwise pretty features. A smile upturned the corners of full, flamingo-pink lips as one manicured hand slid across the table, reaching for Greg.

Stacy shifted uneasily, the soles of her shoes peeling away from the damp, sticky floor. She struggled with the simultaneous desire to sink beneath the table and dive over it, deciding, after a moment, to maintain her covert position. She slouched low in the booth, anxiety and jealousy boosting the guilt already welling in her gut. She _knew_, in the cores of her bones, that Greg would never cheat on her-he wasn't perfect, but he wasn't stupid-but, faced with the opportunity for actual _proof_ of his fidelity, she could not bring herself to interfere.

Despite her decision, she squirmed nervously. She slid to the end of the booth for a clear view of Greg's table, and her hands pressed indentations into her vinyl seat, her fingers tense and straight. Stacy bristled, drawing a sharp intake of breath, as the red-haired woman dragged her fingers over the back of Greg's hand. Stacy's shoulders tensed with Greg's, and their eyes aimed a double-powered glare at the woman. Greg curled his hand into a fist and brought it closer to his body as if to silently communicate his desire _not_ to be touched. Undeterred, the woman slid her hand up his arm, under the sleeve of his t-shirt, and squeezed his shoulder.

Fury flash-flooded Stacy's entire body. Her fingernails cut half-moon crests into the vinyl as the woman-this nameless _tramp_-touched Greg. _Her_ Greg, Stacy thought, staring at the shape of the hand beneath his shirt. She flexed her hands, struck with the impulse to break all five of the woman's fingers, but Greg acted first. He scrambled off his chair, nearly knocking it over, and pointed sharply toward the door, speaking too low for Stacy to hear. As the woman made a hasty exit, Stacy released a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding. She retreated to the corner of the booth as Greg drained his glass, slammed it onto the table, and stalked past her to the rear of the bar. Peeking over the top of the booth, Stacy saw him disappearing into the restroom and suppressed the urge to follow him, press him against the grungy concrete wall, and kiss him until he was dizzy. Instead, she hurried out of the bar, knowing better than to thank him explicitly for what he'd done. Greg didn't like to be caught doing the wrong thing, but he especially hated to be caught doing the _right_ thing.

With a smile pulling at her mouth, Stacy rushed to their apartment, only managing to situate herself comfortably on the couch before Greg appeared in the foyer, softly closing the door behind him.

Stacy struggled to maintain a neutral expression as he wordlessly sank onto the cushion beside her, but her façade crumbled when one of his arms curled behind her back, gathering her close to him. Drawing her legs onto the couch and shifting to face him, she let his arms encircle her. An unsteady sigh parted her lips as she felt him lower his head and tuck his face into the side of her neck.

"I missed you," he whispered, the words muffled but unmistakable against her skin.

Stacy's eyes closed tightly. She slipped her hands beneath his shirt, pressed them to his back, clutching at him as if she were afraid he'd disappear. "You know that I-"

He nodded, his breaths suddenly coming quickly. "I know," he said, raising one hand to the back of her head and drawing her forward to kiss her.

Stacy let herself unleash all her pent-up emotions, releasing a high, broken sound as his mouth aligned with hers. Her hands rose to his head, her fingers curling tightly in his hair, desperately holding him still. She tugged at his hair, and his mouth opened with a short, soft groan. Her tongue pushed inside, absorbing his textures, his warmth, his taste. God, she'd nearly _forgotten_. Shifting onto her knees, one of her hands fell to his shoulder, squeezing gently. She pressed herself against him, sighing into his mouth as his body arched into the touch. _Hers_.

Air blustered out of her nostrils, and she forced herself to break the kiss to draw a proper breath. She inhaled deeply, pressing her forehead to his cheek. He smelled like alcohol, like he'd been doused with an entire top-shelf supply, and as she stroked the hair above his ears, she smiled softly. "God, Greg, you smell like-"

"Eau de vomette," he interrupted, half-heartedly adopting a French accent. "All the rage with patients these days."

She'd expected a lie. She let it pass, pressing another kiss to his lips. A grin spread over her face as she pulled away, and she arched an eyebrow at him. "Race you to the shower," she said, darting off the couch and across the room.

He caught her in the hallway, his arms circling her waist from behind. She let him drag her into the bathroom, their laughter overlapping, and thought, _this_, this was what she'd missed.


	8. July 1998

**July 1998**

By the time Stacy had stacked an armful of their supplies on the picnic table, the sun had sunk below the treetops. Hazy sunbeams washed the campground in orange hues. Overhead, the light diffused to paint the western clouds pink, reminding Stacy of a branch of magnified cherry blossoms, fully bloomed and vibrant. The campground hummed with a symphony of organic sound. Stacy heard the faint rush of the Delaware beyond the trees, the last whistle-chirps of birds, the buzzes of mosquitoes. A fire already popped and crackled in the neighboring campsite. Crickets would emerge soon, complete the natural composition with a stirring, lively rondo before the morning sun rose and the piece began again.

Behind her, Greg's voice sliced through nature's soundtrack and assaulted Stacy's ears. "Fuck!"

She peered over her shoulder. Greg grimaced, shaking his left hand and bouncing on the balls of his feet. His mallet lay abandoned in the dirt beside their half-assembled tent. "You manage to hurt yourself hammering a stake into the ground, yet people trust you to handle multi-million dollar equipment."

"In case you haven't noticed, you don't have to _pitch_ an MRI machine," Greg snapped, gingerly flexing his thumb as he knelt, took up the mallet, and steadied the stake to ground the last corner of the tent.

"Really? I could have _sworn_ those machines had to be assembled with each use," she said, crouching to retrieve the sheet of directions that he had tossed to the side. "Good thing _I'm_ not the doctor."

Stacy caught Greg's eye roll as he stretched for a long vinyl bag, opened it, and withdrew several long poles. He scrutinized them, glancing from each pole to the crumpled material of the tent. His brow creased and his lips extended into a tight, stubborn line. As Greg searched the tent, pole in hand, Stacy scanned the diagrams printed beneath the directions.

"Greg, if you'd just read the directions-"

"I'm not an idiot," he said, slipping the pole inside a loop of fabric that spanned the width of the tent.

"You're not a Boy Scout." She extended a second pole in his direction.

"You don't have to be a Boy Scout to put up a tent."

Stacy pursed her lips and discarded the directions as Greg, determined to raise the tent unassisted, slid each remaining pole into place.

Minutes later, he stood proudly beside the tent, his arms spread wide. "Ha! See?"

"Congratulations," she drawled as Greg disappeared into the tent. She gathered their sleeping bags and crawled inside. "You've validated your manhood." She laid both sleeping bags across the floor, side by side. "If you were a Boy Scout, you'd be well on your way to earning your camping merit badge."

As he scooted onto his sleeping bag, the top of his head brushed the low, domed ceiling. His hair reached upward, charged with static electricity. "You know a lot about the Boy Scouts. Is there something"-he paused to ruffle his hair and scowl at the ceiling-"you're not telling me? Secret obsession? Secret operation?"

"Secret boyfriend."

The corner of his mouth twitched, a grin threatening to pull across his face. "I know you prefer younger _beaux_, but I never thought you'd go after jail-"

"I was in high school," she interrupted. "We were _both_ in high school."

"Spend your dates doing good deeds together?" Sarcasm dripped off his tongue. "Volunteer at a soup kitchen one week. The next week, a nursing home. Then, the week after _that_-"

"Greg," she whispered with a low, husky voice that never failed to capture his attention. As she swung one leg over his and straddled his lap, she eyed him with a focused and intense stare that, over the past three years, she had learned to mirror. Stacy ghosted a forefinger over the fabric of his t-shirt, down the center of his sternum, his abdomen, and dipped into his navel.

"Yeah?"

Her eyes scanned his face, his body, and she recognized his efforts to control his physical reactions and keep himself stubbornly still-his unblinking eyes, the strain in his shoulders and stomach muscles, the tight clench of his jaw. With a quirk of her eyebrow and a confident half-grin, her finger snaked below the waistband of his shorts, tracing his hipbone. She noticed the silent bob of his Adam's apple as he swallowed. To his credit, Greg's reservoir of self-control was not shallow, but years of practice had equipped Stacy with a featherbed of fail-safe ways to deplete it-a slow roll of her hips, a throaty moan, an aggressive kiss, locks of his hair caught tightly in her fists.

Now, Stacy brought her mouth to his ear and blew a hot stream of air into the canal. Her fingers danced across his hip and wrapped around his penis, hot and already semi-hard. She heard his sharp intake of breath and felt him pulse once in her hand. Stacy smiled against the shell of his ear. With a gentle squeeze of her fist, she whispered, "We did some very _bad_ deeds together."

Greg groaned softly, tilting his head to press his cheek to hers. His hand rose to cup the base of her head and guide her into a kiss. Hot breath gusted through his nose and over her cheek, the sound of it drowning the outside noises, as his tongue hurried past her lips and swept into her mouth. His hand dropped to the hem of her shirt and lifted it, fingers splaying over the small of her back.

He became a whirlwind of energy and motion. His hand stroked and clasped at her back, pulling her against him as he noisily sucked her top lip into his mouth. His body arched gently and his hips canted forward, pushing his erection into her palm. His urgency was raw and contagious, and Stacy nearly failed to notice the faint rumble of her stomach. Seconds later, as Greg's hand slid up her spine to grasp the nape of her neck, hunger pains accompanied a second, louder rumble, and Stacy withdrew her hand from his shorts, pushed gently against his chest, and breathed a frustrated sigh.

"Honey, I'm-"

"No-o-o," he whined, falling back onto his elbows and breathing heavily.

"I'm sorry, but I haven't eaten since this morning," she said, genuinely apologetic, and climbed off him.

His head fell back, and he offered a whiny groan to the ceiling of the tent. "This would have taken seven minutes. Your stomach couldn't wait for seven minutes? "

Stacy bit her bottom lip, grimacing as her stomach rumbled again. "I'm sorry," she whispered, rubbing his leg and affectionately squeezing his knee. She jerked her head toward the open tent flap. "Come on. If you feed me now, I can promise you more than seven minutes later." Before he could argue, she crawled out of the tent, into the last slivers of hazy twilight, and walked to their car.

As she opened the trunk, Greg appeared beside her. With a scowl, he cupped his crotch and adjusted himself. "Could've been half-way to a mind-blowing orgasm by now."

Stacy pressed her lips together, refusing to acknowledge his remark and reaching for several plastic grocery bags. She extended a handful of bags in his direction. "Here. Take these." Stacy smirked, shaking her head as he begrudgingly accepted them, turned, and stomped toward the fire ring. As she gathered the remaining bags, she heard plastic rustling and, a moment later, a loud, excited exclamation.

"Yes!"

When Stacy closed the trunk and raised her head, she spied Greg kneeling on the ground beside the fire ring. Two roasting forks were propped against the ring of rocks, and he was tearing open a bag of marshmallows.

"Oh, no," she said, setting the grocery bags on the picnic table. "Not for dinner."

"Oh, yes. _Def_initely for dinner," he said, cradling the bag in his arm as if it were a football, and, with childlike enthusiasm, bounded toward the wood pile.

Ten minutes later, flames bloomed within Greg's teepee of firewood, and, eleven minutes later, the two of them were extending their skewered marshmallows toward the fire. Stacy sat in a folding chair and stared into the flames, which lapped at her marshmallow with glowing, golden tongues. Greg crouched near the edge of the fire ring, his marshmallow poised close to the ground.

"You're doing it wrong."

Stacy threw a sideways glance in his direction, pursing her lips. "I am not."

"You are, too," he declared calmly. "You're holding it too-"

As her marshmallow caught fire, she interrupted him with an involuntary shriek and frantically withdrew her fork, waving it through the air to extinguish the flame. When the flame died, she peered at the marshmallow; black char formed a crisp, cracked outer layer, and Stacy frowned as she carefully grasped the marshmallow between her thumb and forefinger.

"See? You _were_ doing it wrong," Greg said. "You burned it."

"It's not burned. It's"-she paused to slide the marshmallow off the prongs-"well done." A portion of the charred layer fell away from the marshmallow like moulting snake skin; the marshmallow suddenly failed to appeal to her appetite, but, hoping to disprove Greg's claim, she raised it to her mouth.

"Oh, no. Stace, don't-you don't want to-" The entire marshmallow disappeared into her mouth, and Greg groaned with disapproval.

A triumphant smile appeared on Stacy's face, but faded within milliseconds. She averted her eyes and turned her head, hiding her face as it scrunched with displeasure. The sweet, sticky marshmallow was tainted with the taste of ash, and it took an enormous amount of effort to swallow it.

As she shifted to face forward, Greg pulled his marshmallow from the fire and asked incredulously, "You thought it would actually taste _good_?"

Stacy glared at him, temporarily forgetting that, for Greg, threatening glances inspired more speaking rather than silence.

"Next time, just lick the ashes," he said, sliding his marshmallow from his fork. "I'll set some aside before I build the fire. Just for you."

"You're so _sweet_, honey," she drawled, reaching for the bag of marshmallows to spear a second.

"See, _this_ is how you roast a marshmallow," he said, thrusting it toward her and rotating it for her inspection. "Golden-brown on the outside. Gooey on the inside." With a grin, he crammed it into his mouth, chewed for a moment, and hummed contently. "_Mmm_."

Stacy rolled her eyes and asked, "Gooey? That a technical term?"

"Scientific. Very precise." He propped his roasting fork against the rocks as he swallowed, waving her nearer to him. "Come 'ere."

She eyed him suspiciously, but when he gestured again and repeated himself, she scooted her chair closer to him.

Greg shook his head. "Nuh-uh. _Here_." He patted the ground beside him. "Ass in the dirt. Let's go. You need to learn how to do this right."

"Like you, you mean."

"_No-o-o_," he said. "Right."

With a staged put-upon sigh, Stacy took a seat on the ground, crossing her legs as she stretched her fork into the fire.

"Whoa! Hang on." He shuffled across the dirt to kneel behind her. Peering over her shoulder, he reached around her to take hold of the fork's handle and guide the marshmallow away from the flames. "You can't _shove_ it in the fire," he said, breathing a tiny laugh. "Jesus, you're a slow learner."

Stacy scowled at him, glancing out of the corners of her eyes, but let him steer the marshmallow close to the coals, which reflected pulsing, red-orange light off its white surface.

"Keep it there," he instructed, releasing her roasting fork and laying his hand in the curve of her waist. "Turn it every thirty seconds or so. Don't let it touch the flames."

Stacy bit her bottom lip in concentration, but her attention shifted when Greg closed the distance between them and pressed his body against her back. His face hovered in her peripheral vision, and she tilted her head for a glimpse of him. His eyes, their color muted by the fire-glow, blinked slowly and closed before he tucked his face into the crook of her neck, dropping a soft kiss there.

She would never reveal to him that these were the moments she stored in the deep of her memory, locked and guarded; these were the moments she cherished during long work hours and periods of separation. She catalogued his actions, his words, her emotions, her reactions. She absorbed as many details as possible; none were insignificant or too small. Not caring if her marshmallow drifted into the fire, she shut her eyes. Her ears filled with the crackle-snaps of the fire and the rhythm of Greg's breathing, broken by the sounds of his kisses. The familiar scent of him, the campfire smoke, and the faint lingering traces of bug spray all coalesced, fusing together in the warm, nighttime breeze. His touch was light on her waist. His occasional squeezes were gentle. The blazing heat of the fire blanketed her face, her front, but Greg's breaths, the press of his body, warmed the rest of her; she felt wrapped by warmth-by _him_.

The low rasp of his voice brought her out of her thoughts. "You're going to burn it again," he whispered.

Stacy cleared her throat as she repositioned the marshmallow near the coals. Turning her head slightly, she grinned at him. "Maybe I wouldn't if you weren't trying to cop a feel," she teased.

His lips pulled into a grin against her neck. He dropped a kiss behind her ear and, with a playful tone, asked, "Want to hear a scary story?"

She reached behind her to swat at his leg. "Greg," she warned half-heartedly, withdrawing her marshmallow-toasted, not burned-from the fire, and faced him.

"Come on," he goaded. "It's a good one. You won't be able-"

She hurried to pull her marshmallow from the prongs and stuffed it into his open mouth. His wide, surprised eyes made her grin, and she pointed at him. "You _know_ I don't like scary stories."

He wrapped his fist around her index finger. "That wasn't fair," he complained around his mouthful of marshmallow.

"When do you ever play fair?"

He swallowed, then released her finger. "Always," he said, a smirk slowly stretching across his face. "Not bad, by the way." He nodded to her roasting fork. "Although, I think I'll need another taste. I couldn't really enjoy that one."

"Knock yourself out," she said, nudging the bag of marshmallows in his direction. She stood, turned, and started to walk toward the picnic table. "Fill up on all the marshmallows you want, but I need to eat dinner. A _real_ dinner."

"You always have to ruin our fun, don't you?"

"Yep, always," she called over her shoulder, peeking behind her to see Greg smile and defiantly extend another marshmallow toward the fire.


	9. August 1999

**August 1999**

As Stacy peered at her wristwatch, her bare foot tapped against the slick tiles of the bathroom floor, matching the pace of her watch's second hand. Steam billowed and rolled out of the shower, coating the walls with a film of condensation. It fogged the mirror mounted above the sink, the glass face of Stacy's watch. She could no longer distinguish the watch's second hand, and her foot lost its guide, but continued its rhythm.

That evening, Stacy had giddily greeted Greg with news, leaping onto the bed beside him and launching into a breathless account of her afternoon. "Schneider had to go out of town. Some kind of family emergency," she'd said, bouncing on the mattress. "He was supposed to lead a panel discussion at the NLA Conference in Denver, but he can't, obviously, and Kinsley asked _me_ to take his place." She had paused for a micro-breath, ignored Greg's frown, and shifted off the bed to retrieve her suitcase from the closet. "This will probably raise my chances for a promotion. It's such a good opportunity. My flight leaves tonight. I have to go in about an hour, hour and a half." Greg's mouth had dumbly opened, then snapped closed. She'd kissed his cheek. "I'm sorry all of this is so last-minute. I'll just pack and have a quick shower, and we'll eat dinner before I go. I think there are some left-over-"

Before she'd finished her sentence, Greg had catapulted himself from the bedroom to the bathroom and had defiantly taken root under the spray of the shower. He had refused to budge for thirty-five minutes.

Thirty-_six_ minutes.

Now, beyond the shower curtain, Greg casually hummed the chorus of "I Want Your Sex", his water-wrinkled forefinger peeking above the curtain rod to point in her direction.

"Irresistible," Stacy mumbled, a soft sigh accompanying her eye-roll. "Five minutes, George Michael, or I'm telling the utility company to shut off our water."

Greg's hum disappeared, and, several seconds later, the shower curtain shifted to reveal his face. Soap suds clung to the hair along his temples. Water fell from his chin and the tip of his nose, spattering the bathmat. "No," he said. "You need to tell Mr. Tight-Ass at your office that-"

"_Greg_."

"Sorry," he snapped-nothing in his tone approached apologetic-and closed the curtain. "Mr. Tight-Ass, _Esquire_."

"You know," Stacy said, her fingertips rubbing high on her forehead, "it's not actually correct to use a prenominal form of address _and_ 'Esquire'."

"It's also not actually 'correct' to wash your face with apricot extract and pulverized _walnut_ shells in first-world countries."

With a noisy sigh, Stacy threw open the curtain and discovered Greg studying a handful of her facial scrub. "It's _fine_," she hissed, swatting at his hand. The scrub flowed from his palm, into the drain, and Stacy watched it disappear before she gathered her patience and said, "Come on, Greg. Out of the shower."

He ignored her, his attention turned to the water-ribbons curving around his forearm.

Stacy shook her head, eyes flickering toward the ceiling with exasperation, before darting for the shower knob.

As the water slowed to a stop, Greg glowered at her from beneath wet, clustered eyelashes. "You do realize that I could turn this"-he pointed at the showerhead-"back on, right?"

Pursing her lips, she lunged forward to cover his head with a towel and slapped his ass with an open palm, smiling with satisfaction at the sound of his sharp, surprised yelp. "Out," she ordered, backpedaling toward the sink and out of his reach.

Stacy prepared for a counter-attack-a taunt, a retort, a dirty innuendo, the _crack_-sting of the towel on her thigh-and she raised her eyebrows, surprised, when Greg dropped his head, draped his towel over his shoulders, and quietly stepped out of the shower. A deep furrow developed between his eyebrows, and he breathed a soft sigh before scrubbing his hair with his towel. His silence and his resigned obedience raised a mass of red flags in Stacy's brain, and she chewed on her bottom lip as her eyes swept over his body, studying him.

He slumped where he stood, his skin, red from the heat of the water, stretching over the curve of his back. Overhead light reflected in the sheen of moisture that covered him, casting highlights on his body and defining the lines of his shoulders, the curves of muscle in his chest. Stray water droplets rolled from his hair and pooled along his collarbone. Stacy flexed her fingers. She fought against the desire to trace each vein of water, dragging her fingertips from his throat to his hips, and make him arch into her hands. She hugged her own body instead, her arms crossing over her ribcage, while Greg secured his towel around his waist, raising his face to glance at her.

Silence loomed in the thick, humid air, and Stacy offered him a half-smile before turning to retrieve her toiletry bag from the linen closet. As she dropped her facial scrub into the bag, she heard Greg softly clear his throat.

"You said you were going to shower," he said.

Stacy sidled into the narrow space between him and the edge of the sink, and set her toothbrush inside her bag. Behind her, Greg stood so close that she could _smell_ him. The natural scent of him fused with the fragrances of his soap and deodorant-neither had changed since she met him-and, together, forged the subtle, unique smell that Stacy could recognize with her eyes closed. The smell that clung to their bed sheets and his clothes, the smell that could draw her out of sleep and cause her to curl her body around him, nestle her face in the curve of his neck. She faced him, leaning within a hair's breadth of his skin, and breathed the air around him. All of it was warm, saturated with him.

"I changed my mind," she answered, speaking as she exhaled, and peered at his face. "I'll shower at the hotel."

"You're going to hate it," he said, loosely winding his arm around her waist.

"The shower?"

"The conference." He toyed with the hem of her shirt. His fingernail scratched along the line of thread. "It'll be boring. You'll waste four days of your life listening to morons read mediocre publications about information you already know."

"You think I'm going to stick around for all those presentations? No way," she replied, mustering a smile that he didn't return. "Not when the science museum has a special exhibition about the Greek Isles. And there's a zoo. I like zoos."

Greg's hand slid up her back, and he curled a strand of her hair around his finger. "Philadelphia has a zoo," he said, almost hopeful. "We could go. Won't even drag you to the Small Mammal House."

"That's very thoughtful, but-"

His hands suddenly fell to his sides with a slap, and he suddenly burst with the words that, Stacy guessed, he had been withholding since she had delivered her news. "You don't see a problem with this situation?"

Stacy blinked, crossing her arms over her chest.

"You don't see a problem with the fact that you're expected to come running more than half-way across the country with less than a day's notice?" he blurted. "What if you had, I don't know, _plans_? Your boss can't shove plane tickets at you and expect you to drop everything without _any_ consideration for-" Greg pressed his lips together, shaking his head. "For anything else."

"The hospital expects _you_ to come running whenever your pager goes off," she scoffed. "Talk about short notice."

"That's different," he said. "No one at this conference is going to drop _dead_ if you don't show up."

"Fine, it's not the same, but _your_ job isn't the only one that's important, Greg. This is a good opportunity for me." She paused to gather her resolve. Her tone was soft, but firm, and she met his eyes directly when she spoke. "I've already committed myself to this."

Greg fell silent and searched her eyes before casting his gaze to the floor. Stacy noticed the furrow reappearing between his eyebrows, saw the forced movement of his Adam's apple. She reached out for him as he turned away from her, catching his hands and pulling him back to her. When he returned to stand in front of her, she ran her hands up his arms and over his shoulders, gliding smoothly against his freshly-showered skin. Her fingers threaded through his hair, and she breathed a sigh, relieved, as his eyes fell closed and his head tilted into her touch.

"Honey, I-"

"Get out of it," he whispered.

Repressing a frustrated groan, she butted his shoulder once and raised her head. For a man who lived by a creed of logic, she thought, he was beginning to lead her in circles. "Greg."

"Tell them you're sick. They'll find someone else. You're not the only lawyer in your office."

"Are you going to write me a doctor's note?"

"I could," he said, a hint of a grin on his face as he pressed his forehead against hers, the damp spikes of his hair collapsing against her head.

Stacy laughed softly, sliding her hands out of his hair to rest on his shoulders. As she gently rolled her wrists, massaging the tension out of his muscles, a beam of light caught the face of her wristwatch, and thoughts of packing her luggage, catching her flight, rushed to the forefront of her mind. She dropped her hands from his shoulders, glancing at her watch. "Greg, I have to-"

Greg's eyes snapped open, and his hand closed over her wrist, covering her watch with his palm. "Stop, Stacy. Just stop." His breaths rushed quickly out of his mouth, and his fingers moved restlessly over the underside of her wrist. "You don't want to go. I _know_ you don't want to go." He paused for a fast, wavering breath. "_I_ don't want you go." He met her eyes, his gaze holding steady before he blinked, then shut his eyes entirely.

Her lungs, her _heart_, felt physically constricted as she forced a stuttering breath out of her body. She cupped his face in her hands, lifting his chin to urge him to open his eyes and _look_ at her. "Greg," she said, her thumbs ghosting over his cheekbones, before curling her arms around his shoulders and pulling him forward, pressing him against her. "I'll be gone for four _days_, not four months."

Words meant to reassure him seemed to have the opposite effect; his breathing accelerated in her ear and his head shook vigorously. She held him tightly, raising one hand to the back of his head to stroke his hair in an attempt to calm him, calm _herself_. His head still shook when he lowered it to drop open-mouthed kisses on her neck. He gripped her hips, curving his palms over the points of her pelvic bone and pulling her closer.

Stacy wanted to ask him what was wrong. She wanted to ask him _why_, of all the times they had been apart, this time was so different, but the touch of his mouth, his hands, derailed most of her words. She stuttered when she tried to speak. "I've-Greg, I've had to-had to go away before, and you've been fine. Why is this-"

Before she could finish her question, Greg's mouth closed over hers, jolting her with a raw, urgent kiss. Hot air streamed out of his nostrils and over her face as his tongue hurried into her mouth. He grasped her back, her arms, her waist, each subsequent press of his hands more aggressive, more insistent. He sucked on her top lip, his tongue sliding across it before darting into her mouth again. As Stacy met his kiss, she strained for air, her thoughts scrambling as she tried to remember if she had ever seen him this frantic, this _desperate_ before.

Conflicting emotions nearly tugged her into separate pieces, her body caught in a tug-of-war between her professional and personal life. As Greg pulled back from her mouth to breathe, his arms wrapping around her waist to hug her to him, Stacy wondered if _this_ was how he felt whenever a late-night page interrupted a lazy, movie-rental night, or forced him to untangle their bodies, dress in the dark, and leave for the hospital as she slept. Despite the nagging knowledge that she should nudge him away and finish packing, leave before she no longer _could_, her arms tightened around his shoulders, clutching at him, a warm thrill rushing through her with the realization that he wanted her-_needed_ her-like this. It had been a long time since he'd spontaneously _attacked_ her with such strong desire, and she couldn't, for the life of her, put a stop to it. Her fingers closed around a fistful of his hair, arching her neck and pulling his head low. She held him there until his lips, his tongue, pressed against her skin. Her breathing skipped as his fingers curled around the hem of her shirt. His mouth returned to her neck, kissing over her pulse-point, once her shirt, then her bra, skidded into the hallway. He frantically unzipped her skirt and stripped her completely, planting fast, hot kisses over her stomach before rising to stand. Stacy pressed herself against him before he reached for her, trying to force thoughts of her flight and the conference out of her mind. Her hips pushed against him. She felt the warmth of his erection through the damp cotton of his towel as his hips canted forward.

"Oh, God, Greg." Her hands slid down his back and clutched his ass through his towel to pull him flush against her, fanning her desire for him.

Greg groaned softly, his mouth opening against her cheekbone, just beside her ear. He pushed her hair away from her face, breathing quickly, and whispered, "Stay with me."

She wished the world could condense to him-his body, his voice, and, _God_, his kisses-and the flight, the conference, the possible promotion could all fall away. She knew they wouldn't-they _couldn't_-but, in the span of forty-five minutes, they had transformed into obstacles, _live_ obstacles that tripped her as she tried to leap them. She drew an unsteady breath and shut her eyes. "Greg, I can't."

In the next moment, Stacy wondered if her body was, in fact, splitting into separate pieces. As her own words resounded loudly in her brain, her body rebelled, her arms squeezed Greg's body tightly enough to force air out of him. She worried, for a second, that she'd hurt him, but the concern passed as his hips rolled against her. Pleasure flared in her belly as his erection passed over her clit, and, leaning against the basin of the sink, she curled one leg around his hip, pulling his body closer.

She whimpered as he lowered her leg, confusion etching lines in her forehead. When he pressed his mouth to her ear and whispered her name, she swallowed her whimper, barely managing to utter a response. "Yeah?"

"Turn around."

Stacy's breath hitched so hard, it shook her. The protest that left her was obligatory, halfhearted, and went unfinished. "I need to-I can't-"

Dismissing her words, he stepped backwards, grasped her hands, and spun her slowly. His arms folded across her, tugging her against his body. Once her head rested against his shoulder, his hands slid low; one splayed over her stomach, pressing gently, while the other applied more pressure, fingers spread over her thigh. His lips brushed her temple as he spoke, his voice hoarse, "I know you'd rather sleep in _our_ bed than in some strange, lonely hotel room with itchy blankets and basic cable."

"Yes," she whispered, her hands curling into fists, as his middle finger slid between her legs and touched her, lightly and slowly. "_Yes_."

"Then stay."

A raw, piercing ache raged through her body. She wasn't entirely certain if it was borne of the knowledge that, soon, she would have to leave him, or of the fierce, consuming need to feel him move inside her. She shut her eyes, and her voice trembled when she started to speak. "Greg, I ca-"

"Don't say you can't," he said, dropping a kiss into the curve of her neck and slipping his finger inside her.

Stacy moaned softly, reaching behind him and splaying her hand over the small of his back. She pressed, her arm straining, until his hips surged forward and his erection rubbed against her.

"Greg. _God_, I want to-I want-"

Behind her, Greg lifted his head. His body stilled. Stacy felt the beat of his heart against her back. When she raised her eyes to the mirror in front of her, she glanced at his reflection and found him staring, _waiting_. Slowly, she slid her hand from his back to his hip. She unraveled his towel, listening as it fell onto the floor, and closed her fingers around his shaft.

Greg shuddered, exhaling with a quiet groan. He dropped a line of kisses across her shoulder as his hand slid from between her legs and settled between her shoulder blades. Stacy's breath stalled as he pressed gently, silently urging her to bend forward. Anticipation swelled in her chest, and she braced her hands on the edge of the sink, already rocking backwards with the hope of feeling him against her.

When his hand lifted from her back, she raised her head, glancing into the mirror. Her eyelids fluttered, but stayed open, her eyes focused on Greg's face when his hips pressed forward, his erection slipping between her legs. Heat surged off his skin like a solar flare, and Stacy pushed into each touch, each _burn_ of his body. His hand closed around her hip, trapping a layer of heat. The head of his penis painted hot, thick strokes over her sensitive skin. She noticed Greg's gaze flicker into the mirror, his eyes soft and his expression tender, before he pulled her body towards him and slid smoothly, completely inside her.

Before she closed her eyes, Stacy watched a wave of pleasure wash over Greg's face. His eyes closed as his mouth opened. His head fell back, exposing the long line of his throat as he uttered a long, stuttering groan. She bowed her head and listened, her heart skipping with the knowledge that, after all their time together, she could still draw that sound out of him, that she could _please_ him. She pressed back against him, and her fingers pinched the walls of the sink with a vise-like grip, the ache in her knuckles barely registering. Her ears filled with her own voice as he withdrew, her sigh turning to a deep, content moan when he filled her again. Greg leaned forward, wrapping his arm around her waist, and held her so tightly that Stacy wondered if he feared an escape. He pushed deeply into her, rocking with a slow lullaby rhythm. He paused at the end of each stroke, his whole erection inside her, and pressed soft kisses over her spine. She could feel _everything_.

Sounds echoed, leaping off the damp, beaded walls and amplifying their groans, their _breaths_. Greg drew shallow, quiet breaths, and Stacy looked into the mirror to glimpse his face. She reached toward the mirror and touched the surface, tracing his reflection and leaving smudges on the glass. Her fingertips slid against the image of his face, following the lines of his eyebrows, his lips, and trailed down his chest. The glass was cool, too perfectly smooth, and Stacy wanted to feel Greg's warmth, the texture of his skin, the fine hair on the nape of his neck. Leaning back, she reached around him to spread one hand over his neck and the base of his head, several fingertips sliding into his hair. Her other hand curled around his forearm that rested over her stomach.

As she touched him, she fixed her eyes on their reflections, glancing from her own body to Greg's. Stacy's heart thundered under his free hand as it traced a broad line from her neck to her ribcage, his fingers spread wide. He cupped her breasts, squeezing gently before playing with her nipples. Stacy tracked the path of his hand down her body, seeing it descend past the bottom edge of the mirror and out of sight. As his knuckles dragged across her hips, she watched their bodies moving together. Usually, she could only see _him_. Admittedly, she loved to watch him, to absorb the expressions on his face, to follow the movements of his body, the shifting and flexing of his muscles. But _this_, the sight of the two of them, made Stacy's heart feel enormous in her chest. She felt taken with love for him, a breath blustering out of her so strongly that she realized she had forgotten to _breathe_.

Stacy lost sight of him, bowing her head, as Greg touched her clit, rubbing in time with his slow, steady thrusts. She drew his head down to the curve of her neck, her fingers burrowing into his hair. She waited until he pushed all the way inside her, and clenched down on him. His body jerked, his finger skipped on her clit, and his muffled groan vibrated against the skin. He applied more pressure to her clit, more speed. Stacy tried desperately to store all of it in her mind, wanting to remember his voice, his touch, the feel and movements of his body. She wanted to recall it tomorrow as she touched herself, her legs spread on a hotel mattress, her own fingers a poor substitute for his body.

As if to prove her right, Greg readjusted his footing, secured his hold on her, and moved within her faster, a little harder. Her body bent like a bowstring, arching and tightening with pleasure. She felt surrounded by him, aware of the press of his body against her back, his forearm across her stomach, his mouth against her shoulder. He dropped kiss after kiss, pushing hard. Stacy shut her eyes, meeting his thrusts as well as she could. A flush of heat spread from her cheeks to her breasts. The burn between her legs compressed, and she hiccupped his name between moans, her fingers flexing around his arm.

He urged her on between fast, heavy breaths, dropping his voice and whispering close to her ear. "That's it. That's it." A kiss landed on the side of her neck. "Come on, sweetheart, that's it."

Stacy heard the echo of his voice as she came, the hot pressure between her legs flooding outward. Bright, tingling sparks fired into her belly, down her legs. Her knees locked, muscles tightened. She felt her hands shaking, one slipping against the surface of the sink, the other holding fast to Greg's arm.

Greg followed her quickly, and she hurried to look into the mirror as his voice, low and quiet, reached her ears.

"Oh, God, Stace," he shuddered, his head tipping back, his eyes closing tightly. "Stacy. _Oh_."

Stacy focused on his face as he came, groping for his hand. She frantically interlaced their fingers, her breath hitching when he squeezed her hand. Behind her, his body tensed with strain, jerking with his orgasm. She returned his squeeze, pressing their joined hands between her breasts until he collapsed and leaned heavily on her back.

She could feel the tacky stick of his forehead on her shoulder, but she didn't ask him to move. Greg stayed inside her, both arms curled around her as their heartbeats slowed. After a long moment, Stacy felt him draw a deep, relaxed breath, his chest rising and falling against her.

Her breaths left her quickly, skirting the jagged lump in her throat. She glanced at the top of his head in the mirror, reaching over her shoulder to lace her fingers through his hair. She wanted to tell him that she could stay. She wanted to take his hand, lead him to bed, and lie with him in rich, orange, summer hues until the sun set, imagining the far-away dot of a plane blinking and moving across the sky without her.

She knew she couldn't stay.

Stacy turned her head and, in a voice she barely recognized, whispered, "Greg, I don't want to, but I-"

His arms tightened around her, and he ground his forehead against her. "Don't," he said.

"I have to," she said, restlessly smoothing the hairs on his arm. Her voice broke when she added, "Honey."

"Stacy."

She couldn't find her voice to reply, and, several seconds later, she felt the soft, resigned thud of his head against her. Another second passed before Greg uncurled his arm from around her, pulled out of her body, and shuffled towards the wall.

Stacy felt an acute sense of loss. She bowed her head low between her shoulders. His semen, thick and wet, slid out of her and down the inside of her thigh, and she shut her eyes tightly. She leaned heavily against the sink until she managed to draw a deep breath, aware of Greg's presence behind her. She bent to gather her clothes and, as she passed him, glanced at his face in time to see his expression fall and his head drop, bobbing gently.

In their bedroom, Stacy forced herself to dress and fix her hair, tying it into a ponytail. She heard Greg exit the bathroom and pad through the hall as she reapplied her eyeshadow, the tiny brush trembling in her fingers. She completed her packing, a heavy weight in her chest, and hauled her bag into the livingroom. She quietly set it near the door.

Greg sat on the couch, dressed in the same t-shirt and boxer-briefs he had worn earlier. He glanced at her with a sullen expression, then turned his eyes back to the television screen without a word.

Stacy plodded into the kitchen. She rummaged the cupboards for a snack and uncovered a pair of granola bars, slipping one into her pocket for later. She tore open the other wrapper, watching as it fell from her hand to the trash. A long strip of paper caught her attention, and she glanced at Greg, frowning, before bending to retrieve her plane ticket from the trash.

Her heart plummeted, nearly dying in her chest, when she realized she wasn't holding her plane ticket. She held _their_ plane tickets. Two, departing tomorrow, for Paris. Stacy forced herself to swallow her bite of granola, wincing as it scratched the inside of her throat. Her fingers gripped the tickets, and she looked over her shoulder at Greg. He flipped through the channels, never settling on one, and twirled a lock of hair at the back of his head.

Uneven breaths sliced into her lungs. She bit her lip, her canine teeth pressing until blood pooled on the smooth membrane under her tongue. Turning her head, she raised a heavy arm to peer at her wristwatch.

With a quiet, strangled sob, Stacy stared into the trash and let their tickets go.


	10. October 1999

**October 1999**

Standing beside the streak-free windowpane of the Aéroport de Fort-de-France's Gate 14, Stacy lifted her arm under the weight of her carry-on, frantically pointing one stiff, rigid finger toward a jet that had begun to taxi across the runway. "We missed it, Greg!" Stacy glared at Greg. If the anger clawing its way up her throat could produce fire, Stacy would have spit it all over Greg's red, sun-burned skin. Instead, Stacy settled for another wild gesture toward the plane and, not caring if the volume of her voice attracted the attention of airport employees and passers-by, shouted, "See? We missed it. I _told_ you we'd miss it!"

Greg shrugged his carry-on onto the floor, heaved a scornful laugh, and rolled his eyes.

"No, _don't_-" She dealt a backhanded slap to his arm.

"Hey!" Greg scowled at her. His hand curled protectively around his forearm.

"Don't roll your eyes at me."

"_Je_sus. No need to get violent." He cradled his arm against his body, carefully soothing his skin. "We'll catch the next flight to Newark. Big deal."

"Big deal?" Stacy echoed, pinching the fabric of his shirt sleeve, and forced him to stand beside the electronic board of departures. "That was the _last_ one, Greg. There is no 'next flight' tonight."

Greg jerked his arm free and fussed with his t-shirt, properly situating it across his shoulders. "Okay, fine. Let's go back into town, back to the hotel-"

"We can't," she said, one hand slapping against her thigh. "We have no room. The hospital only booked us a room until the end of the conference."

"We could pay for our own-"

"And we _can't_ pay for our own because you failed to do the one thing you were supposed to do before we left." Stacy raised herself on her tiptoes, leaving a sliver of airspace between their faces, and met Greg's stare, unblinking. "Call our credit card companies and notify them of our travel plans, so they wouldn't _freeze_ our accounts due to 'suspicious activity'." With a huff, she about-faced, starting to pace a path along a row of vinyl seats.

"What a dumb-ass policy." Greg scoffed, following her to fall backwards into a seat at the end of the row. "Seriously, who steals a credit card and heads for a medical conference in the French West Indies?" He stretched his legs, forcing Stacy to hurdle his sandaled feet. "Not exactly a tropical locale that immediately comes to mind. The Bahamas, maybe. Or Cancun. Or-"

"Greg!" She spun abruptly to face him, nearly knocking herself off balance. Her hair whipped at her cheeks. Her hands curled into fists at her side. "I don't care. That's not the point. The point is that we're out of cash, we have nowhere to sleep tonight, and this"-she swept her arms through the air-"is _your_ fault. You need to fix it."

"Oh, no," he replied, pointing, shaking his head at her as he stood. "You can't blame me for this. You didn't have to-"

"_You_ cornered me in the shower. _You_ hid my clothes, and-and-" Stacy felt her cheeks flush with heat, her memories of the evening looping in her mind, despite her anger. Greg had kissed her, pressed himself against her, and touched her with such desire and need that she'd lost the will to refuse him. When he'd lifted her, hooked her legs over his elbows, and slid inside her, nothing else had seemed to matter. Stacy shook her head as if to clear it, remembering her frustration, and poked the center of Greg's chest with her fingertip. "You _knew_ I wouldn't be able to say 'no' to you, you-you jerk."

A smile slowly pulled across Greg's face, revealing a pair of dimples in his cheeks. Stacy nearly mirrored it, but she stifled the urge.

"Stop it, Greg. It's not funny," she said, crossing her arms over her chest. "Our flight was in an hour. We were already running late. You knew we'd miss it."

"Come on, I spoke to you in French. How much sexier do you want me to get?" Still smiling, he stepped forward, reaching for her.

Stacy slapped his hand away and hissed, "Calling out 'oui' during your orgasm does _not_ count as speaking French."

"Technically-"

"Shut up." Stacy steadied her eyes on his face, holding his gaze, before she bowed her head, heaving a sigh and pushing both hands through her hair. Anger and frustration seethed in her chest as her brain struggled to forge a solution. She turned, heading for the nearest empty chair, but stopped when Greg's hand wrapped around her wrist. She let him pull her toward him, but she knew better than to hope for an apology.

"Stace, it's not the end of the world," he said, his voice even, softer, as if he were trying to coax her into compliance. "We'll catch the first flight out in the morning. Be home by lunch." His hand traced the curve of her hip. "Haven't you ever been stuck in an airport before? It could be fun."

Despite the gentleness in his voice and his touch, Stacy's aggravation and anxiety lingered in her chest. This was anything but _fun_. She stepped backwards, rifling through her bag. "Okay," she said, her voice tight and strained. "If it's so much fun"-Stacy took hold of Greg's hand, spread his fingers, and slapped both of their tickets into his palm-"_you_ could exchange our tickets."

"Why me?"

A spiteful grin tugged at Stacy's lips, and she said, "Oh, I just thought you'd want to practice your French. It could be fun."

~~~

"Four letters." Greg leaned forward in his seat, his head bowed over a rescued copy of the _Miami Herald_, and absently beat a steady cadence against the crossword with his pen.

Without shifting her head, Stacy's eyes flickered to Greg's pen. Her fingertips massaged her temple, attempting to ease the headache she'd developed following their ticket exchange. Within two minutes, Greg had insulted the man behind the ticket counter, and Stacy had intervened, completing the exchange with a rudimentary knowledge of French phrases and a forced smile. She had stuffed their tickets into her carry-on, led Greg to one end of the terminal, and collapsed onto a row of unoccupied seats. Now, each tourist, each businessman that bustled past seemed to taunt her. The aromas of cafes and fast food restaurants made her empty, aching stomach twist with hunger. Beside her, Greg had been reading clues aloud for forty minutes, and each word he spoke, each strike of his pen against the page heightened all of the frustrations that _still_ bubbled beneath the surface of her skin.

Stacy shifted in her seat to face Greg, narrowing his eyes at him, and, without preamble, announced, "Greg, I'm curious."

Greg groaned, tipping his head back to peer at ceiling. "This will be good."

"Are you ever capable of thinking of anyone but yourself?" She paused, despite the rhetorical nature of the question. "Or are you _that_ focused on your own agenda that you're constantly oblivious to everyone else?"

Greg's eyes closed, and he sighed, lolling his head on the back of his seat. "Will you get to your point?"

"Insulting an employee, Greg? He almost called airport security. Did you think it would inspire him to cooperate? Did you want us to get thrown out of the airport?" Stacy pushed her hair away from her face, studying Greg's profile. "Or were you trying to piss _me_ off? In either case, Greg, it was selfish, and childish, and _stupid_."

"Does it matter?" He lifted his head, twisting sharply to face her. "We're still here. I got us new tickets, and, since-"

"No!" The volume and pitch of her voice rose, and Stacy pointed to the center of her chest as she spoke. "_I_ got us new tickets!"

"All right, fine, but, since it's taken care of, there's nothing left to talk about," Greg said, his voice tight but resolute, and he met her stare for a moment before he bowed his head over his newspaper. "_Four_ letters. A wooden-soled Japanese shoe."

"No, Greg, there is," Stacy said, ignoring Greg's crossword clue. "I'm not finished talking about this-"

"About _what_?"

"-and, as long as you have ears, you'll hear what I have to say whether you like it or not."

"The answer's 'geta', by the way," Greg said, and wrote the answer into the crossword boxes.

In four years, Stacy had learned lectures rarely accomplished anything with Greg, but she couldn't drown the words hovering at the back of her throat. "Next time we plan to fly somewhere we're leaving on time. No. We're leaving _early_."

"Six letters."

"I know you insist on being late for everything, but we're not going to be late for _this_ anymore. I don't care if you want sex, or food, or sleep." Stacy spoke over the audible gurgle of her empty stomach; she pretended not to hear it. "_I'm_ going to catch our flight. You could stay behind. Have sex with yourself, and find your own way home."

"A severe food shortage."

Stacy glared at Greg, convinced that he had invented a clue in order to annoy her, poke at her buttons to spite her. Typical. Through clenched teeth, she said, "I will _not_ get stuck in airport with you again, if I can help it. Once is bad enough. We could have been home by now, but we're not. We're here. Tired, and hungry, and-"

"Famine," Greg said. He leaned sideways, sneering at her. "_So_ close. Five letters."

Stacy slid low in her seat and attempted to calm herself. She closed her eyes, crossing her arms tightly over her chest.

"Method of Divine retribution."

She inhaled a deep, measured breath and resisted the urge to gag Greg with his own newspaper. Another, louder gurgle rolled through her stomach, and Stacy covered her abdomen with her arms.

"No guesses? Not even one?" he asked with mock-cheerfulness, nudging her with his elbow. Stacy heard his pen scratch as he wrote. "Smite."

Before Greg finished the word, Stacy jerked his newspaper out of his hand, off of his lap. His pen left a blue streak across the page, an elongated, crooked letter "t".

"Whoa! Hey!" Greg shouted, stretching his arm across her body to recapture his paper. "Look! You made me mess it up."

Stacy stuffed the newspaper into her carry-on, out of his reach. "I don't care about your damn crossword, Greg. I'll smite _you_ with it if you don't put your brilliant puzzle-solving skills to use and find us something to _eat_."

"Wow. You're bitchy when you skip a meal. Did you know that?" He abandoned his attempts to retrieve his newspaper and slouched in his seat. "Oh, God, you're not pregnant, are you? Would explain the preoccupation with food, the moodiness-"

"Hunger! Hunger would explain the 'preoccupation with food'," she declared, mocking his tone. "And _you_ would explain my 'moodiness'."

"Oh, I'm sorry. You're right. You're the poor little victim." Greg made a show of rolling his eyes. "You've gone longer than"-he raised his arm to glance at his wristwatch-"ten hours without eating, without all the complaining."

"Yeah, when I was working, when I was busy. I had other things-more im_port_ant things-to think about, instead of-"

Greg shrugged. "So do that," he said. "Think about something else. You're not the only one who's hungry, you know. You don't see anyone _else_ whining about it."

Breath left Stacy's nostrils with a dry snort, and her lips tightened into a thin, straight line. Any attempt to appeal to Greg's compassion would fail, and Stacy figured that, at this point, the best course of action involved positive reinforcement-a reward, a _prize_. She cleared her throat, and spoke in a firm, but smooth, even voice: "Listen, if you could-"

"No, no," Greg said, pointing at her. "That's your lawyer voice. Put that away. I'm not one of-"

"_If_ you could solve our problem and find us something to eat, two things will happen. One, neither of us will be hungry. Two, I'll shut up for the rest of the night, and leave you with your crossword." She quirked her eyebrow, and one corner of her mouth twitched with a half-grin. "It's a win-win."

Greg breathed a laugh. "Tell me, Stacy. How am I supposed to solve our problem? Magically conjure a couple sandwiches? Sneak onto an airplane and raid the food carts? Stroll through the terminal and swipe a-"

When Greg cut himself off mid-sentence, Stacy raised her eyebrows. He tilted his head to one side, as if it were suddenly top-heavy, as his eyes flickered over her face, bright and focused.

"Greg?"

Springing into motion, Greg took hold of her hand, hauled her out of her seat, and tore through the terminal. Stacy resorted to a skip-run to stay close to him, trailing an arms' length behind, and nearly collided with him as he came to a sudden stop beside a thick, white pillar near a row of public telephones.

"Greg, what-" Stacy propped one hand against the pillar, pausing to catch her breath. "What are you doing?"

"Solving our problem," he said, calm and matter-of-fact.

"Last time I checked, public phones didn't produce food."

"No, but they attract people, who have wallets, which have money, which will enable us to buy food." To prove his point, Greg jerked his head in the direction of the telephones. A gray-haired man, nearing fifty years old and dressed in a business suit, pressed a phone to his ear as he replaced his wallet inside his jacket pocket.

Stacy swiveled to face Greg, her eyes wide and mouth open with astonishment. "No, Greg. _No_," she whispered, despite the distance between the pair of them and Greg's proposed target. "You've gotten yourself into enough trouble at _home_. I am not about to help you expand your criminal record to an international level. We could get arrested, Greg."

"The only way we'll get arrested, _Stacy_, is if you get out there and blow our cover."

Unwilling to believe what she heard, she gaped at him. "Our-our _cover_? This isn't a spy movie. You're not James Bond. This is-this is real life," Stacy hissed, punctuating each word with hand gestures. "We could end up in jail, Greg. In jail."

Greg chased her wrists until both of his hands wrapped around them, keeping them still. "Okay, listen," he whispered, pausing to peek around the pillar at the unsuspecting businessman. "Either we steal a little cash, or we go back to our seats, sit down, and snack on my newspaper."

Stacy searched his eyes, considering their options, torn between her empty stomach and her fears. With a sigh, she bowed her head and replied weakly, "I can't. Greg, I-"

"All you have to do is distract him," Greg whispered, his tone gentler. "When he hangs up the phone, ask him for directions, or flight information. Anything. Just keep him occupied. I'll do the rest."

With a sigh, Stacy lifted her head to glance over her shoulder. The man had already started to walk away from the telephone. She shook her head frantically, attempting to slide her wrists free of Greg's grip. "This isn't going to work. We'll get caught. We'll get fired-Greg!"

Stacy shrieked with surprise as Greg pushed her away from him, beyond the cover of the pillar, and into the passing businessman. She struggled to recover, to act naturally, and mustered an apologetic smile. "Pardon," she said, self-consciously tucking a lock of hair behind her ear.

The man mirrored her smile, and said, "Est-ce que je peux vous aider?"

Dumbfounded, Stacy froze, paralyzed by panic. Her eyes darted toward Greg, who hovered behind the pillar. Glaring at her, he gestured to the man, silently mouthing, "Come on."

With another smile-too wide, too _obvious_-Stacy attempted to speak, groping for words. "Uh, yes. I-" She swallowed, aware of Greg striding away from the pillar. "I need to find the, uh-In the airport, if you could-" Stacy bit her bottom lip, but released it to offer the man another smile. Heat and sweat coated her palms. As Greg drew close to the man, Stacy's whole body tightened, her chest and her ribcage constricting her breaths. Spliced words and phrases whisked through her brain and filled her mouth with warbled syllables.

The man touched her shoulder, oblivious as Greg slipped a hand inside his pocket, withdrew his wallet, and retreated to a telephone booth. He spoke gently. "Est-ce qu'il y a une problème?"

She glanced at Greg as he stood at the booth, the telephone cradled between his ear and his shoulder, and searched her brain for a word-any word. _Greg. Doctor. Medicine._ "I, uh-medicine. I need-" Stacy wiped her palms on her thighs. _Medicine. First aid. Aid._ "Help me. Help me find the, uh-"

Stacy watched the man nod repeatedly, encouraging her. In her peripheral vision, Greg turned, the man's wallet in his hand, and approached him. He looked intently into her face before he glanced at the man's pocket to replace his wallet, while Stacy's heart beat in her _throat_.

Desperate to keep the man occupied as Greg worked, she shouted, "The hospital! Help me find the hospital."

"L'hôpital?" the man asked as Greg disappeared into a cluster of people on the opposite side of the terminal.

Relief burned through her, and she breathed a quiet, short sigh. "Oui. L'hôpital," she repeated.

The man's face brightened as he nodded in understanding. Stacy waited while he obtained a pen and scrap of paper from his briefcase and drew a rough map of the airport, labeling the medical facility with a cross.

"Merci," Stacy said, taking the paper with trembling hands, and fled to the end of the terminal. She collapsed into her seat, fury yielding to weary relief as she waited for Greg to return.

After several quiet moments, Greg's voice boomed from behind her, startling her. She gasped as a wrapped, warm sandwich landed in her lap, and peered at Greg as he sat beside her.

"He only had enough cash for one," Greg said, nodding toward the sandwich. "Grilled chicken. Oh-" He waved a bottle of water between them. "And one of these." Breaking the seal on the bottle, he smirked at her. "If you're wracked with guilt, I'll eat that whole thing."

"Shut up."

As Greg drained a third of their water, Stacy devoured several mouthfuls of their sandwich. She stayed silent, as promised, until Greg shifted in his seat and said, "You're the worst sidekick ever, by the way."

Stacy swallowed, rolling her eyes. "You forced me out there," she said. "With no warning."

He set their water bottle at their feet before slouching low in his seat, stretching his legs in front of him. "You manipulate people on a regular basis. Amazing you're so bad at it on the fly."

"I've never tried to _rob_ anyone. Not quite the same."

Smiling to himself, Greg crossed his ankles and folded his arms over his stomach. He drew a deep breath, his eyes drifting closed.

Stacy frowned. "What are you doing?"

"What does it look like I'm doing?" Greg's head turned toward her, but his eyes stayed closed. "I'm going to sleep for the next few hours. I thought you were shutting up."

She glanced at the half-eaten sandwich in her hand, and nudged Greg's arm. "Greg, you haven't eaten. You need to eat something."

"My secret life of crime wears me out," he said, already beginning to mumble. "And I'm not hungry, so, again, shut up."

Stacy detected his lie, receiving confirmation when Greg's body betrayed him, his stomach growling loud enough for her to hear. "Honey, you-"

"You _said_ you'd shut up."

Stacy sighed softly, finishing the sandwich, and watched as Greg eventually relaxed with sleep. Scooting closer to him, she cupped the side of his face, her thumb stroking his cheekbone as she studied him-dozens of details she already knew, had learned years ago. Stacy felt her chest tighten with affection for him, despite the frustration of the day, and she trailed her hand over his jaw, his shoulder, the side of his body. She pressed a kiss to his cheek before tucking herself against his side. Resting her head on his chest, she closed her eyes and listened to the rhythm of his breaths, to the beat of his heart, as warm and familiar as home.


	11. April 2000

**April 2000**

"_This_? This was your brilliant plan? _Show_ me the error of my ways?" Greg trailed behind Stacy to the third hole, raising his arms, his putter grasped in both hands, and twisted to the side to allow a stampede of teenagers to pass. "Listening to you argue the point was bad enough, but _this_ is a waste of time. Miniature golf is _not_ better than real golf. _Full_-sized golf. Golf without packs of high-school dropouts and unsupervised toddlers interrupting all of my shots."

"I never thought it would be this busy," Stacy admitted, reaching the tee. "Who plays miniature golf on a Sunday morning?" Crouching, she peered along the course's stretch of uniform kelly-green and set her red golf ball on the tee.

"_You_," Greg replied, swinging his putter to point at her. "And half of Princeton's juvenile delinquents." Stacy stood as Greg let his club fall and bounced it against the ground with steady, dull _thuds_. "It's like golfing with the Lilliputians. Look." He gestured to his putter, angling it for inspection. "Even the clubs are tiny.

"Oh, God, Greg, stop whining." She slapped Greg's golf ball into his open outstretched hand. "_You_ brought this up. It was _your_ idea."

"I said we should go _golf_ing. You're the one who made it miniature."

Stacy rolled her eyes. A lock of her hair fluttered across her face, and she tucked it behind her ear. "For God's sake, Greg. It's _golf_. There are golf clubs, and golf balls, and green grass-"

"That"-Greg pointed sharply at the ground-"is a carpet."

"-and eighteen holes. It's the same thing, just"-Stacy shrugged-"more compact."

Greg sighed. "See, that's the problem. _Real_ golf involves _dist_ance. Holes are hundreds of yards apart. It lets the players have some room to breathe. Keeps them away from-"

"Let me guess. All the morons?"

"_That_," Greg confirmed, smiling proudly at her, "and, here, I can't free-wheel a golf cart through sand traps."

"Greg, no, that-that's not even _poss_ible. Golf carts can't go through sand traps. They're not built for-"

"_Wil_son said that, too, and put money on it. God, what an easy fifty bucks."

An affectionate half-smile appeared on Stacy's face as she imagined it: Wilson standing cross-armed at the edge of a sand trap, laughing while Greg gleefully blazed a path from one end to the other. Two Lost Boys rooted in their own carefree, timeless Never Land. "Speaking of Wilson," Stacy said, "any word from your partner-in-crime?"

Greg sobered instantly, bowing his head as if he were ashamed of the answer. "No." He lifted his club and poked at the petals of a lavender crocus along the edge of the course. "As far as I know, he's still holed up in the Finger Lakes, sipping wine with his new _girl_friend, the latest damsel-saved-from-distress."

"Barbara."

"What are you? Her best friend?" Greg snapped, then pressed his lips together. He heaved a sigh through his nose as he sliced through the crocus patch, scattering petals across the mulch. "Three and a half weeks and they're already taking vacations. _Long_ vacations."

Stacy caught Greg's wrist in her hand and pulled him to face her, rescuing the remains of the flower bed. "_One_ week," she said, "and we were living together." When Greg huffed a breath, unable to argue the point, she loosened her grip and stroked her thumb over the soft underside of his arm. "A vacation's _slow_ by your standards."

"He hasn't been answering his phone."

Stacy released his arm, letting her hand fall with a slap to her side. "God, Greg, don't sulk. Let him enjoy this time alone. You can bother him all you like when he comes back." She rose onto her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. Lowering herself to the flats of her feet, she offered him a confident half-smile. "I bet you won't make it to the hole in five strokes."

Greg narrowed his eyes, already bright and focused. The corner of his mouth twitched, a grin threatening to pull across his face. "I'll make it in _three_."

~~~

"You know what? You're right. Miniature golf _is_ fun," Greg's voice called from beyond a tall windmill obstacle. "When you don't follow the rules."

Stacy crouched near a round hedge, peering over her shoulder toward the windmill. She spied the white, gentle flutter of Greg's t-shirt as the wind, stronger since rainclouds had overtaken the sky, lifted the fabric away from his body. Her gaze lingered on him for a moment as a smile slowly spread over her face. "You're supposed to be helping me," Stacy shouted toward him. "Not playing hide-and-seek."

On the eleventh hole, Greg had nudged the back of her knee with his putter, mid-stroke. Stacy had jerked with surprise, which had sent her golf ball sailing off-course, over the grounds, and out of sight. Greg had capitalized on the opportunity to roam the course, abandoning the quest for Stacy's golf ball within minutes, investigating obstacles and, Stacy assumed, planning his strategy. She'd paused her search several times to watch him. After all this time, she still loved to watch him while he was unaware of it-peeking through the cracked-open door of his office as he worked, or lying awake with him as he slept, or moments like these, studying him as he retreated into his own thoughts, quietly observant but intensely focused. Stacy drew a deep breath as she returned to face the hedge, resuming her search.

Behind her, Greg's footsteps skittered over the mulch and faded completely. A moment later, his voice sliced through the air. "Found it!"

When Stacy stood, swiveling to face the source of Greg's voice, she discovered a long L-shaped tunnel, the gray fiberglass surface dull and rock-like. She approached the entrance, peering inside as she passed under the arch, scanning for signs of Greg. "Come on, Greg," she said, breathing an exasperated sigh. She combed her fingers through her hair. "I didn't come here to play-"

An involuntary shriek interrupted her as Greg's arms wrapped around her waist from behind and pulled her against him. Greg walked her backwards until he connected with the wall. Stacy drew her bottom lip into her mouth, closing her eyes at the warm stream of Greg's breath, the heat of his mouth, as he pressed a kiss to the side of her neck.

"Yes, you did," he whispered, letting the words fill her ear before he spun her to face him. Before Stacy could argue, his hand rose to cup her cheek. Greg's fingertips threaded through her hair, and his thumb brushed over her cheekbone as he gently guided her forward to kiss her.

Stacy's mouth opened against his, her tongue meeting his as it swept past her lips. The shouts and squeals of children, the distant roll of thunder, the impacts of passing footsteps condensed to an indistinct drone, and Stacy's ears filled with the sigh of Greg's breath, the sound of his kiss. Her hands pushed beneath the hem of his shirt and slid together over his stomach, his ribs, his chest, and she spread her fingers wide to feel the push and arch of his body. When Greg hummed into her mouth, it was easy, natural, to flatten her hands on his back, fit herself against him, and deepen the kiss, answering, _Yes, I did_.

Greg broke the kiss abruptly, inhaling sharply. Stacy felt his chest expand against her, a strained grunt vibrating through his body and into hers. "What?" she asked, searching his face. Greg's brow furrowed, and Stacy smoothed the worry lines with the backs of her fingers.

"Nothing." He dropped another kiss on her lips. "It's nothing."

Stacy trailed her hands down his back and out from under his t-shirt. Quirking her eyebrow, she smirked at him. "I need my ball back to play."

"You could have mine. You could have my club, too," he said, reaching around her to cup her ass, steadying her as he pushed himself against her.

"God, you're worse than a teenager," she said, her smile negating the weight of her words. She shoved him backwards playfully. "Come on, my ball. Give it up."

With a roll of his eyes, Greg reached into his back pocket, fished out the ball, and lobbed it at her.

A grin pulled across her face as Stacy headed for the exit of the tunnel, carrying her ball. She expected to hear Greg's footsteps behind her, to see the blur of his body barreling past her, the start of an unspoken, unannounced race to the tee. She braced herself, ready to break into a full-speed sprint.

"Stace-" Greg's voice broke behind her. "Stacy, wait."

Stacy faltered, but forced away the spark of worry that popped in her chest. "The ploy's not going to work, Greg," she called, passing beneath the tunnel's arch. "I'm not going to let you pull me back to the starting line when I've already gotten a head-start. For once."

A sharp, strangled cry pierced her ears, and Greg called again, "No, Stace, it's not-I'm not-"

Alarm immediately flash-flooded her chest, and Stacy spun so suddenly, so fast, that she nearly toppled over her own feet. Her heart felt as though it somersaulted into her throat, blocking her breaths as her eyes found Greg. He was bent over in the middle of the tunnel, his head bowed and face hidden. His hands gripped and squeezed his right thigh, the muscles in his arms tense with the effort.

"Greg?" Stacy dropped her golf ball and hurried to stand beside him. She laid her hand on his back. His whole body heaved. "Greg, are you all right?" Stacy knew the answer before the question had ever left her mouth, but his answer-his delivery, his tone-would reveal more than a simple word ever could.

Greg's fingers pulsed with a rhythm as frenzied and erratic as his breaths. He swallowed audibly as he shook his head. "No."

_No_. Honest. Simple. No hesitation. No bullshit, and no sarcasm. Sour, acrid fear erupted inside Stacy's stomach, burning as it rose through her chest and into her mouth. _Oh, God. God. Oh, God. No. Something's wrong. It's bad. Oh, God._

"It hurts." Greg's voice rose, tight with strain. His face bunched with a grimace as a groan stuttered out of him, between clenched teeth.

The sound ripped through Stacy like gunfire. "Okay. It's okay," she whispered, swallowing against the hollow dread clawing along her throat. "Let's go. We'll go." She curled her hand around his arm, gently urging him to shift his weight and take a small half-step forward.

Greg fell against the wall before he completed the step, bracing himself with his shoulder. "Can't. I can't."

For a fleeting, heart-freezing second, Greg lifted his head and met her eyes with a distant, unfocused stare. He looked lost, Stacy realized. Scared. It terrified her, forcing a tremble through her legs. Her voice wavered as she said, "Greg, honey, come on." Her hand slid along his spine, over his neck, and stroked the hair at the back of his head. "It's okay. It'll be okay. Try again. You have to try again. Just get to the car. It's okay."

Stacy was uncertain that Greg had heard her, but, after a moment, too still and too long, Greg finally reached for her, wrapping his arm around her back. His fingertips sank into the muscle and bone of her shoulder, and Stacy bit her bottom lip, stifling a cry as they both took a slow, careful step forward.

"It's okay. It'll be okay," Stacy repeated, ignoring the quick shake of Greg's head. She rubbed her hand across the small of his back as they moved together with a second step. "It'll be okay."


	12. May 2000

**May 2000**

When Stacy arrived at Greg's room, carrying a pitcher of water and cup of ice, she checked her appearance, studying her reflected image in the fingerprinted, spotted glass surface of the door. She had washed away mascara-streaks at a first-floor restroom sink, applied fresh make-up to disguise the red, swollen skin that lined her eyes and smooth the chaffed patch around her nose. During the last hour, Stacy had stepped out of Greg's room as he slept, her unread paperback closed and abandoned on the chair beside his bed. She'd carried herself on unsteady legs to a willow tree near the hospital's parking lot. Tears had already spilled onto her cheeks and more had blurred her vision as she crouched at the base of the tree, shielding her face from passers-by and the low, gold light of the late-evening sun. The stress and pain of the last several days, Greg's pending surgery, the uncertainty of his future-_their_ future-had weighed on her, overwhelmed her, and had forced a flow of tears and hitched, noisy breaths out of her body. Now, most of the tear-tracks that had darkened the front of her shirt had faded, and, as she quietly opened the door to enter, Greg saved her the trouble of covering any leftovers.

Greg's voice physically jolted her, causing water to slosh out of the pitcher and onto her button-down as he declared, "I need a marker."

She squinted at him, dropping her chin, and remained quiet as she stepped over the splatters of water on the floor and approached Greg's bed. The florescent light above his bed cast a green, sickly glow on his skin. His brow and cheekbones shone with oil. His eyes, still swollen with exhaustion, tracked her until she reached his bedside, his attention shifting from her face to her hands as she poured a cupful of water. Stacy set the pitcher on Greg's tray-table, cleared her throat, and mustered a half-smile. "You're awake," she said, extending the cup toward him. "I brought you some water. I thought you might want-"

"I _want_ a marker," Greg sniped, ignoring the cup. He turned his head sharply and glared at her as if she'd left her brain in the corridor. "Not water. A marker. You know, those writing instruments with felt tips that leave permanent _marks_."

Stacy bristled, her smile vanishing. She jerked the cup away from him and set it on the tray-table, disregarding the water that spilled over the lip. "Yes, thank you, Greg, I-"

"Water. Marker. Water," he said with a sing-song rhythm, peering at a point in the room beyond her. "Sounds different to me. Maybe stupidity is contagious around here."

"Oh, and _you_'ve been a real genius," she hissed, locking her elbows and curling her hands into fists to keep from delivering a slap across his arm. "You've barely made an effort to take care of yourself. You haven't eaten anything they've given you. I haven't seen you touch a drop of water since yesterday. You've made rash de-"

"And, what, you want a reward for 'taking care' of me?" he asked, mockery loading his voice. "I said I don't _want_ it. I'm not _thirsty_. What's so hard to understand about that?"

For a moment, Stacy stared hard at him, her lips pressed together and her jaw set. Greg never blinked, and, after several tense, silent seconds, Stacy's mouth opened with a sigh. She rested a hand on her hip as she fought to recover her patience, privately batting away Greg's thinly veiled insults. Lacrosse injuries, mix-ups with bar patrons, and violent encounters with patients had taught her that Greg reacted strongly when he was in pain; usually, he lashed out, blurted words designed to hurt, words he rarely meant. Stacy curved her hand over his shoulder and stroked the tight knots of muscle in an effort to soothe him, to drain the pain and tension from his body. "Greg, honey. Please, you really should-"

Greg shrugged her off, and, blinking against the burn of threatening tears, Stacy let her hand fall to her side. "Listen," he said, "I don't need you to _baby_ me. I don't need you to track every little thing that I eat, or drink, or fluff my pillows, or tuck me in, all right? I don't-" His mouth suddenly snapped closed. He lowered his chin to his chest and released a heavy, loud breath. His fingers picked tiny tufts of fuzz from his blanket. When he spoke again, his tone softened, but Stacy still heard the frustration edging his words. "I don't want that. Just-" He paused, pressing his head against his pillow and raising his eyes to glance at her face. "Can I have my marker now?"

Stacy's shoulders slumped. Her purse only contained blue ink pens, and she left the purse untouched on the floor. "I don't have one."

"Well, find one. Check the nurse's station." He jerked his head in the direction of the corridor.

She glanced over her shoulder and through the open blinds of the glass window, spying a singly-manned nurse's station. An assortment of pens, pencils, and-sure enough-Sharpie markers blossomed like an office-supply bouquet in a wire-mesh cup. She twisted to face Greg, raising an eyebrow inquisitively. "Why? So you can deface hospital property? Give your doctors a _real_ reason to dislike you?"

Greg immediately glared from beneath furrowed eyebrows. "I thought drawing might be therapeutic."

"Oh, well, in that case, let me get you some construction paper and crayons, too."

Outstretching his hand, he snapped, "Just give me one. It's only a damn _mark_er."

Stacy's energy to fight this particular battle faded quickly-this wasn't a matter of potential life or death; it wasn't im_port_ant-and she shook her head, spun on her heel, and stalked out of the room. Greg had the decency to hide a smug reaction when she returned and thrust the marker in front of his nose. Greg's gaze flickered from her face to the Sharpie in her hand. Without a word, he took the marker with one hand and threw the bedcovers to the foot of the mattress with the other.

When he hitched up his hospital gown, and neatly printed _NOT_ high on his left thigh, Stacy blinked at him. "Greg?" She leaned closer despite herself, watching as he finished _THIS_, drawing two lines beneath it for special emphasis. _NOT THIS_. "Greg, what are you doing? Writing. What are you writing?"

Greg grunted quietly as he reached across his body and below his bent knee to write _LEG!_. A soft, frustrated laugh escaped past Stacy's lips as Greg shifted his weight, relaxed, and touched marker to skin on his right leg. He had already written _NOT THIS L_, all in thick black letters, when he replied, "These people are idiots. They'll need all the coaching they can get once I'm unconscious." He stretched to finish _LEG_. His face scrunched and his jaw clenched with the strain, but Greg managed a hushed mumble, just loud enough for Stacy to hear: "Fucking morons."

She frowned, folding her arms loosely across her chest. "They're not all idiots, Greg," she said, meeting his eyes as he threw himself against his pillows. "Even if they were, these are different doctors this time."

"Different idiots."

Stacy stepped closer to the bed, swallowing against the urge to point out _his_ share of poor judgment calls-that would only force them backwards, when, for the first time all day, she finally had a chance to _reason_ with him. "Greg, these _idiots_ will be operating on you. Overseeing your treatment," she said, gesturing toward his leg. "You must have _some_ confidence in their abilities if you're willing to agree to this."

His gaze drifted to settle on his legs, the left still bent at the knee, the right straight and stretched out in front of him. He tightened his fist around the Sharpie, shaking his head. "They've screwed up every diagnosis. Every-"

"How can you not-"

"Would you?" Greg pushed himself to sit up straighter. His breaths suddenly burst out of his mouth. His eyes focused squarely on hers, holding steady. "Would _you_? You didn't trust them three days ago. I don't know why you'd trust them today. There's sure as hell no reason for _me_ to trust them today."

Stacy bowed her head. When she closed her eyes, a three-day-old image rose behind her eyelids: Greg half-curled on an exam table, neck arched, eyes blinking slowly, face twisted with pain. His fingers had clutched fistfuls of his hospital gown as his chest heaved with frantic labored breaths. Stacy had followed the tube that had snaked out from beneath his gown and spied the collection bag already filling with urine.

"Another couple minutes," she'd said, sliding her fingers under his gown's overlapped fabric to rub his skin. She'd wished, at that moment, that she could relax him with her touch. "Another couple minutes and they'll test your urine, right?"

Greg had closed his eyes, set his jaw, and replied through clenched teeth. "They're not testing my urine. They're testing to see how much pain and humiliation I can stand before I either give up and leave, or break down and beg for narcotics."

"They-" She'd stammered, her hand stilling against his chest. "They still think you're _faking_? They gave you nothing for the pain?"

He'd jerked with a harsh, humorless laugh and shook his head. "I didn't even get a damn anesthetic for _this_." He'd gestured to himself, his hand slicing through the air. "So now my leg hurts _and_ my dick hurts."

Stacy had confronted Greg's doctor, fury flaring in every fiber of her body as she'd threatened legal action, and she'd returned to Greg's room with news that his doctor would administer pain medication and grant him a private room. Greg had thanked her, let her wipe sweat off his forehead with a dry towel, and squeezed her hand through spikes of pain. When Greg's doctor had returned, Greg's urine had looked as though it had been mixed with a cup of Earl Gray. This afternoon, three _days_ later, Greg had finally figured out why; his doctors had already satisfied themselves with a minimal number of tests and a weak-wrong-diagnosis.

Stacy pushed the memory aside and raised her head, combing her hair away from her face. Greg eyed her, his head tilted and eyes narrowed. She forced herself to meet his eyes. Greg would interpret-accurately-a lack of eye contact as a sign of doubt and, in an instant, would read her thoughts, her emotions, as if they were bright scrolling headlines on a live marquee. "You have to trust them."

"No, I don't."

"Then why are you still here? Why not just go home and operate on yourself? I've already seen you realign a dislocated shoulder. I've seen you put stitches in your own forehead. If you don't trust anyone to get this right, then why don't you-"

"There's morphine here." He bent forward, Sharpie in hand, and grimaced as he stretched to his knee. "And a sterile operating environment. And-" He grunted, exhaling hard, and the strain in his body bled into his voice. "And fancy equipment to jump-start my heart if-_fuck_-it's too beaten up by all the-new bullies on the block." His shoulders slumped as he swung back to lie against the bed, unable to reach far enough past his knee to finish. "And I'll need someone to give me a jolt of the _right stuff_. Can't do _that_ myself." Heaving a sigh, Greg waved the marker in her direction. "I can't reach. Write 'either' for me. Well, I'd prefer 'either, you idiots', but that won't fit. Too bad."

Stacy stared dumbly at Greg's hand, her body rigid and her stomach suddenly queasy with paralytic dread. Stacy hadn't processed Greg's words beyond 'jump-start my heart'; the others had degenerated into muddled noise, as though Greg had spoken underwater. In her head, the even, constant scream of a monitor-the flatline of Greg's heart-overpowered his voice, and she scrambled to kill her imagination before it evoked even more unwanted details. She drew a long, deliberate breath, blinked against the blurred images in her mind, and shook her head to clear it. As she focused on Greg's Sharpie, his words-his _joke_-finally registered. Anger swelled in her chest and mingled with the sharp fear that curled around her lungs, her heart; it buried her urge to launch herself at him, soak his shoulder with a flood of tears, and _beg_ him to change his stupid, stubborn mind: _For the love of God, please, Greg, I _love_ you. Don't give _up_ on yourself. You can live with one leg, or a half a leg, or no legs. Your _leg_ doesn't define you. Don't let yourself die, please, Greg. Please, we're not _done_ yet_.

She steeled herself, squared her shoulders, and said, "You could be wrong. You _know_ you could be wrong. Your body might be unable to handle this. You've never been in-"

Greg jerked his hand, extended the marker closer to her. "It will. I know how pain feels."

Stacy overlooked the marker, fixing her gaze on Greg's face. "Pain like this?" She ignored the waver in her voice. "Even with the morphine, it will be-"

"It'll be fine."

Greg's eyes blazed with a unspoken warning, but words leaped out of her mouth, driven by the desperate desire to stand her ground and determine with absolute certainty that Greg objectively weighed this decision, that he explored his options and examined the risks like a _doctor_, not a stubborn, tunnel-visioned patient. "It _won't_ be fine. It will be _bad_. You don't know how long it'll last. And the toxins, Greg. Your _or_gans could fail-"

"I can _take_ it!" Greg curled his fingers around the marker and pounded the mattress with his fist.

"You can't _will_ it to happen. You can't defy the limitations of your body no matter how much you wish you could. Greg, this could _kill_ you."

"I'm not going to die."

She blinked against fresh tears, refusing to let them spill onto her cheeks, and curled her hands into fists at her sides. "You don't know that. You _can't_ know that. You can't." A single, rueful laugh blustered out of her. "God, Greg, listen to yourself. You're as bad as your patients. No wonder you never listen to them. You're not invincible, Greg. You're not immortal."

Greg's glare smoldered. His face twisted with an expression as dangerous and wild as she'd ever seen. "I'm _not_ going to die."

"That's not a good argument. It's not even an argument at all. Give me one _shred_ of evidence, Greg. One precedent. You live by numbers. Statistical data. Results, because _they_ don't lie. They're sound pieces of evidence, and _you_ haven't been able to-"

"Stop it."

"-give one real, logical reason for-"

"_Shut up!_"

Stacy spun on her heel-too fast, nearly toppling over-as Greg's voice exploded in her ears and cut a jagged path through her chest, her gut. She hugged her body and raised her face toward the ceiling. Her eyes widened, blinking rapidly to contain her tears. She held her breath, pressing her lips together and refusing to free the hiccup-bubble trapped in her throat. As the silence persisted, thick and heavy, Stacy's lungs burned, her feet ached, and she wondered if Greg would utter another word to her before his surgery.

Relief trickled through her when Greg drew a breath as if he were gathering the courage to speak, and whispered, "Stacy?"

She slowly turned to face him, her arms falling to her sides as her shoulders drooped. She finally released an unsteady breath and waited for Greg to continue.

He raised the Sharpie. "I can't do this myself."

For a moment, Stacy searched Greg's eyes, seeking and finding a meaning in his words beyond a request for temporary body art. Her anger melted, and, with a nod, she extended her hand. "Give me the marker."

As her fingers closed around the Sharpie, Greg's left hand caught her wrist. He pulled, drawing her closer to the bed and forcing her to bend over him. The marker fell to the mattress as they reached for each other, her hands spreading over the sides of his head, his sliding along the curve of her waist. Stacy felt as though her heart splintered as Greg shifted to sit straighter, taller, and closed the distance between them to kiss her. A high, broken sound slipped out of her mouth and past his parted lips-dry, sticky, but still familiar, still _her_ Greg. Her fingertips slid into his hair, her palms avoiding the plastic tube that crossed his cheek, and she gently turned his head to fit their mouths together. She let herself release the range of emotion that tumbled through her-her fear, her sadness, her love-and let him _feel_ what she'd desperately wanted to verbalize. Greg had always favored actions over words. He'd learned to interpret hers within a matter of months, and now he answered with his own pain, unspoken assurances, and private pieces of himself that she treasured, couldn't bear to lose.

The kiss ended slowly, and neither of them pulled away immediately; Stacy pressed her forehead to Greg's, lingering close enough to breathe his air, and Greg stroked his thumb over her hipbone. His hand gently squeezed her waist before it eventually fell away from her and dropped to the bed. Stacy straightened up, her eyes fluttering open to see Greg lean into his pillow. Drawing a tight, dry breath, she glanced to the sheets and curled her fingers around the Sharpie marker.

Ten minutes later, Greg's message finished and the Sharpie stowed in Stacy's pocket, a dark-haired nurse opened the door, stepped into the room, and, forcing a weak smile, asked, "Ready?"

Greg responded with a single, fast nod.

Stacy swallowed, unable to move. Unable to breathe. _Ready?_ Ready to squeeze Greg's hand and watch him disappear into the hands of doctors that neither of them trusted? Ready to wait for potentially fatal toxins to course their way through his body? Ready to see Greg loaded up on morphine until he was barely coherent, and still in pain-in _worse_ pain? Ready to consider the possibility that she would have to hear the screech of his heart monitor, his last word, his last breath?

_No_. As the nurse wheeled Greg through the corridor, exiling Stacy to the waiting area, no one heard the quiver in her breath, her quiet, whispered, "Never." She felt her heart lurch as Greg peered over his shoulder to meet her eyes before the nurse steered him around a corner and took him away from her.


End file.
